Down in the Willow Garden
by Praxid
Summary: "Carol stared at the wall. She was lying on her side in an unfamiliar bed—a stranger's bed, abandoned until she'd taken it up the night before. It rested in an abandoned room. An abandoned house. A nameless town." When the group spends the winter in Daryl's hometown, Carol finds herself joining him in a dangerous journey through his past.
1. Prayer

_Hello hello hello, my friends! I'm ready to go live with this, finally, and I couldn't be more excited. It didn't really feel right not to have a project on the burner, you know? This dark little story takes place post season 2. You do not need to have read Little Janie Reed or The Blood Done Signed my Name to follow this, but it is set in the same universe and I'm building on the backstory I established in those fics._

_I'd like to shout out to Designation and Surplus Imagination, whose brain-storming prowess helped to create what I lay before you! Go read their fics, because they are fantastic._

_The rest, I think, will be self explanatory as we move along._

_But one more thing, in the spirit of fair disclosure: I may or may not kill characters in this story. I know some people dislike that sort of thing, so I want to be upfront by saying that absolutely no one is safe. And after that, I'd like to add one hearty, cheerful (and possibly incongruous) word: Enjoy!_

* * *

_Prayer_:

Carol stared at the wall.

She was lying on her side in an unfamiliar bed—a stranger's bed, abandoned until she'd taken it up the night before. It rested in an abandoned room. An abandoned house. A nameless town.

The sun hadn't risen, yet. The light was steel grey, filtered through the dirty glass of the bedroom window. It cast the shadows of the bare tree branches across the walls. Across the bedsheets, and her hands.

She woke when it was still dark. She wasn't sure how long she'd been awake, but it couldn't have been very long.

And she just lay there—still. Silent. Her breath was shallow. As if she wasn't really there at all.

Her mind was with Sophia.

Every morning the knowledge of what happened settled in slowly as she came to herself. It crept in as she shook off that sleepy fog. When she was asleep, she didn't know it. And when she woke each day, she had to reassemble everything—sort the pieces, thread them together, and accept their reality before she could get up and start the day.

It always took an effort. Her mind was still pushing against it, as if it would stop being true one morning, and she would wake up and discover that this—_all_ of this—had never really happened.

But this morning, Sophia was still dead. That was her first thought when she opened her eyes and saw the wall in front of her. As if the words were gouged into the plaster.

And she watched the cold light swell over the paint. Over a cobweb near the ceiling. It was late December, as far as any of them could guess, and the mornings had gone still and noiseless with the cold. No one else was awake, yet. The other rooms around her were silent. The only sound came from old beams in the ceiling. They creaked and groaned as if the house was alive—trying to stretch out its limbs and shift in place.

Yesterday, they'd settled into this shabby, decaying mansion—a winding, painted lady Victorian with many rooms and hallways spanning out from the central staircase. It was like a rabbit warren, or a maze.

An excellent place to hide.

* * *

In the next room, Daryl leaned on the side of a window frame, buttoning his shirt.

It was early. The sun had only just started to rise in the sky, and everything was washed in a pale light. It moved over the faded wallpaper at his shoulder, bringing out its muted colors.

None of the others knew it, but he'd been in this house before.

They'd been wandering all over North Georgia for months. Maybe it was bound to happen eventually. They'd moved on and on, and suddenly—yesterday—he realized they were heading straight for his hometown.

He didn't tell them, of course. But he led them to the safest place to hide. The old mansion on the hill, off in the rural roads on the edge of town—near the borders of the forest.

It wasn't that far from the dead end road where he'd grown up. An easy walk on the streets, and even shorter if you cut through the woods.

He looked out the window, down into the backyard below. Once he'd stood in that yard with his brother, over twenty years ago, when he and Merle were both just kids. They'd looped around through the woods, and approached the house from the back. Scaled the tall, wrought-iron fence with its heavy black paint and rusty posts. They were hammered into tangled shapes that looked like vines.

And when Daryl landed on the grass in that yard and got a first good look at the house, his face instantly lit up with pure delight.

It was like something out of a story.

For one, it was _huge_. Tall and old and rambling, with elaborate wooden details carved under all the windows. There was a tower rising high above the slate roof. And right away, he knew he wanted to climb up that tower really, _really_ bad. Wanted to find out how far you could see from the very top.

And the house was just _battered_—really old and poorly maintained, with peeling paint. And that only made it better.

And inside, there'd be room after room for the two of them to explore.

Merle was watching him—taking in the look on his face. He smiled. Merle was seventeen years old, out of juvie for a week, now, and glad to be back home. He'd gotten taller while he was away, and Daryl was really struck by how grown up he was starting to seem.

Merle clapped him on the shoulder.

"See, little brother?" he said, "I _told_ you this place was fucking amazing, didn't I?"

Daryl nodded. It was true. He did.

Merle grinned at him, and bolted across the lawn. And Daryl followed—past the old, stone well with its wooden cover and iron pump. He tried to keep up, but Merle was so much bigger than him that it was pretty much impossible.

Daryl's brother—he was so strong and fast and daring. He'd do just about _anything_. And on days like this, that was the best thing Daryl had to look forward to in his whole life.

Other times, it wasn't so good.

They rushed up onto the wrap-around porch in the late afternoon light. It was long and low on the horizon—warm and golden like the sunsets sometimes are in the autumn. The first hints of dusk were settling into the corners of things, and they hid carefully among those shadows as they moved around the porch. They didn't want to be seen skulking around there, on the off chance that there was anyone there to see them.

"Try a window," Merle said, "Most places, they forgot to latch all the windows."

So he did. The first one didn't go. So he tried a second. Still nothing.

He turned to his brother.

"You _sure_ this place's empty?"

"Oh yeah," Merle said, scanning the porch for another way in, "These assholes only ever come for a few weeks in the summer."

Merle was pacing the porch while he said it—walking along the whole stretch, trying window after window. While he investigated, he talked to Daryl.

"Billy and me—we brought some of the girls here last April."

He stopped a moment, stood in place. Shook his head, smiling. Lost in the memory.

"Man, that Jenny Wilkins… the tits on her are enough to make you fucking _cry_."

And then Merle saw something that caught his attention. He shook the thought away, and waved to Daryl.

"Hey, bro—that little one way up over there. Gotta be a bathroom or somethin'. I bet you could fit in that."

So Merle hoisted him up, and Daryl saw his own face reflected in the glass. He lifted the screen without any trouble, and then the window slid right on open.

And he dropped into that bathroom, and rushed around through the hall to open the back door for his brother. They were _in_.

Everything was dim and shadowy, with the golden light pouring in through the windows. Some of them were stained glass, and they threw colors all over the paneled wood. Over the indistinct contours of the dropcloths that covered the furniture.

There were dust motes hanging in the air, floating around in the shafts of colored light.

A long hallway cut through the first floor, stretching from one end of the house to the other. The stairwell rose up in a graceful curve near the front door. Women's faces stared out blankly from the carved newel posts. Their hair wound around the stair rails in elaborate, hand-carved braids.

Daryl took it all in. Spoke in a hushed voice.

"_Wow_, Merle…"

He stepped forward. The boards creaked under his feet, and the high ceiling towered above him.

"What—what do we do _now_?"

Merle wasted no time.

"C'mon!" he said, jumping forward, a smile on his face, "I'm gonna get ya!"

Daryl grinned, and darted away from him. And so they rushed towards the stairs—play-racing like they sometimes did. And of course, Merle caught up to Daryl even after giving him a considerable head start—Merle was almost grown up, now, and Daryl was really still a little kid.

And when his brother caught him, he scooped Daryl up by the waist, sideways, and carried him up the rest of the stairs that way. On the landing, he didn't put him down. Spun him around in a circle, and hoisted him up on one shoulder.

"Let's see what all's _in _here, bro," he said, rushing forward. Daryl hung onto his brother, and they barreled along down that hallway in the swelling dark.

And over two decades later, staring out into the growing light, Daryl smiled to himself, slightly. That hallway was just outside the bedroom door behind him. Seeing it again—being here—it brought a lot back to him.

And he felt a familiar pang, then. An unsettled worry, deep in his gut.

He wondered where his brother was. What he was doing there. If he was safe.

If everyone else was safe from him.

The day after they'd explored the house, Merle went out with Billy and the rest of his buddies. Got really high on something. Came home in a white rage, and beat Daryl unconscious. One of his eyes was swollen shut and he missed a week of school to make sure no one would find out.

But the day before all that—the day at the house.

That day was good.

* * *

Carol lay there in bed for a long time. The morning light grew around her, slow and steady.

She heard a noise in the room next door, through the thin walls. A movement.

Without thinking, she sat up in her bed and looked towards that sound, as if she would be able to see through the plaster. The mirror hanging there reflected her face back to her. And she looked at herself, sitting upright in bed, the sheets tangled around her waist.

A door opened in the hall and then closed again, softly. She heard quiet footfalls pass by her room, and head on down the stairs.

It was Daryl. He'd chosen the room next to hers. He always seemed to stay close—even when he went for days at a time so hard at work that he barely spoke to her. When they ate, he'd sit near her. And when they all gathered together in the evenings, he was usually right there—hanging back a bit, perhaps, but still by her side.

Carol hadn't had a real friend in many years—she'd had too many secrets to keep for that. But her secrets died with her family. There was nothing left to hide.

There wasn't much left _at all_, really. Life was just a long string of days—days spent running from the dead, and searching for a home. For the last few months, they'd been moving from place to place with restless speed—they'd stay a night or two in some secure shelter that seemed deserted, and then they'd move on.

But no matter where they were, Daryl was always planning—preparing. He was always up before sunrise. He'd hunt and scout before anyone else was awake. Sometimes he didn't sleep at all, if he'd been keeping watch the night before.

More and more often, lately, he took Rick along with him. But not today.

Today, Rick would want to be with Lori.

At the thought of Lori, Carol dropped her gaze to the bedsheets, and her reflection in the mirror moved with her.

Yesterday had been horrible. She was reasonably certain Lori had nearly died.

* * *

When it happened, Carol was riding in the truck with T-Dog—leaning against the window, half asleep. They'd been on the road for a long time. The scenery was all pretty much the same—bare trees. Open fields. Abandoned cars. Sometimes there were shapes moving around inside those cars. Sometimes she could see the dead things' hands pressing against the windows as they drove on by.

She wasn't really interested in that sort of view. So she pulled her jacket over herself, like a blanket, and rested her head on one arm. And she felt T-Dog's eyes on her, sometimes, but he didn't say much as they moved on and on down the quiet, country roads.

She was almost asleep—her mind started to float and wander as the tires whispered along on the asphalt.

But then a car horn blared out somewhere in the caravan, cutting sharply through the haze.

She bolted upright, darting her head around, looking for approaching walkers. Other survivors. Something that wanted to kill them.

The rest of the cars were pulling over, then, and she still didn't know what was wrong. When T-Dog joined them, pulling over at the shoulder, she saw some of the others rushing for Rick's car.

And she jumped from the truck and followed along, pulling her jacket around her shoulders as she moved.

It was Lori.

Carol could only see a little as she approached—Lori's head, rolled to the side, and one of her arms hanging limply out of the open car door. Her dark hair swayed in the slow wind.

She bolted forward. Saw that Lori was slack in the front seat of the sedan, unconscious. There was foam running out of her mouth. Rick was leaning over her from the driver's seat, clutching at her shoulder, and shouting for Hershel. His eyes were wet and his face was flushed.

And Carol stepped backwards. Her hand floated up to her lips. She looked behind them, helplessly—down the row of cars—and she saw Hershel heading for them from the back of the caravan, Maggie at his side.

"_Mom!"_

Carl pushed Carol aside—rushed straight for his mother. Climbed into the front with her and had her by the arm. Hershel was almost there at that point, and the boy was trying to cling too close. So Carol took him. Pulled him back by the shoulders so that Hershel could get to Lori.

And that little boy. When she pulled him away he gave her a cold glare that shot straight through her body.

It still left her unsettled, even a day later.

But in the moment, she pushed all thought of it aside. Drew him close against her despite how he stiffened in her arms. And she could feel the handgun on his belt, pressing against her leg.

Hershel reached Lori just as she started to stir—started to come back to herself. Murmured quietly that she felt alright. Pushed at Hershel's hands, trying to brush them away. He told her that he thought she'd had a seizure.

And in that moment, there was a sound in the woods at their backs. She spun around just in time to see something fall to the ground, a distance away in the trees.

A walker. And Daryl was standing at the guardrail, crossbow in hand. He'd shot it cleanly, and it was down.

He stepped over the rail to retrieve the arrow. And Carol watched him. Searched the winter trees for more dead. But there was nothing. There weren't even birds.

When she turned around again, Rick was standing next to Hershel, leaning over the open car door. Staring at Lori. Lori was staring back at him, cooly, one hand resting on her swollen, pregnant belly.

Hershel turned to Rick, then. Put a hand on his arm.

"We need to stop somewhere safe so we can properly treat her."

And Daryl spoke up, at that, climbing over the guardrail again and heading straight for his bike.

"Let me scout on ahead. I'll find a place."

He was only gone about a half hour. When he returned, he immediately led them to this house. And when they got there, they all stood on that tired, winding porch, looking for a way in.

"Try a window," Daryl said.

"Most places, people forget to latch all the windows."

* * *

And now, in the morning, Carol could feel the coolness of the winter air moving over her face. She pulled herself out of bed. Placed her left foot on the hardwood, then the right. Walked to the window.

The backyard was wide and empty. There were tall trees skirting the iron fence—oaks that must have been well over a hundred years old, planted there when the building was new. Beyond the fence, a sloping hill dropped down into a dense forest.

Daryl walked out into the yard. Down the slate steps of the back porch and into the dormant, winter grass. He had his crossbow on his shoulder.

He walked along the perimeter, under the trees. Moving in circles. Pacing around as if he was thinking about something.

And she turned away. Went to kneel on the floor by the bed, like she had every morning since she was a child. Propped her arms up on the mattress.

And Carol prayed.

"Lord…"

She paused. Breathed in and out.

Nothing came to her.

She thought and thought about what to say. The silence stretched out around her. She meant to keep her eyes closed, which is what you're really supposed to do when you pray, but somehow they just drifted open. The sunlight filtered over the brass headboard in front of her, and a shadow headboard stretched out behind it on the plaster.

She knelt there. Opened her mouth, closed it again.

This was getting harder and harder, lately. Even though there was a formula to these things that was supposed to make it easy. A way of speaking to the Almighty she'd been taught when she was a girl.

You thanked him before you did anything else. You counted your blessings. You never dove into petitions without acknowledging everything you'd been given. There was a way of _doing_ things, and you had to do them right or you wouldn't be heard.

But now, she just didn't have the energy for all that. He'd hear or he wouldn't.

And still she knelt there, saying nothing. Thoughts rushed through her mind—the faces of her friends. She should pray for Lori—for Lori's baby. That was the most obvious thing.

And she should pray for the others—for the Greenes, who were still adjusting to this way of life. For Glenn and T-Dog, who'd been selfless—brave. She should pray for their protection, since they protected everybody else.

And inevitably, bravery and selflessness led her mind to Andrea. She remembered the raw terror in the fall air that night—she was just seconds away from being torn to pieces by those horrible things. And then Andrea came. Saved her. And she was screaming for Andrea to look out when that walker bore down on top of her.

And then Carol lost sight of her in the crowds of dead. She couldn't see, and had no way to find her or help her.

She should really pray for Andrea. Pray that she was still alive. That she wasn't all alone.

"Keep us all safe," she said.

That seemed to cover everything, really.

You weren't supposed to get restless while you prayed. But without thinking, she stood up. Started pacing the room in circles. Thinking.

And then she stopped in place.

"Lord… watch over Daryl."

"Please."

She paused. Continued.

"Give him peace."

And she found herself back at the window. Looked down again, and saw that Daryl was gone.

She laid a hand on the glass.

"In Jesus' name," she whispered, "Amen."

* * *

When Daryl walked out into the large, open backyard of the painted lady, he looked up into the branches of the old oak trees. Saw a flock of sparrows, there. The little things were doing just fine for themselves, hopping from branch to branch, pecking around and chittering.

And the flock all took off at once. They moved off into the winter air, and he watched them fly away.

And beyond them, up in the house, he saw Carol's face in a bedroom window.

She was just turning away. He saw her profile, a moment, and her hand, pressed lightly against the glass.

And a bit later on, he saw her shape in the room, again—indistinct in the shadows, up above. She was pacing around. And somehow—he didn't know why—he felt worried for her, then. Couldn't express it, even in his mind.

He turned away. Looked deep into the forest beyond the iron fence. This town—his hometown—it had been carved out of that woods, long ago—and it was surrounded by it, still.

And like the walkers, that wilderness was _hungry_. Unstoppable. It devoured what men created. Chewed away at it all like it was nothing.

With no road crews and utility workers and land developers left, the forest would steadily overrun everything.

Things were changing. Daryl could sense it everywhere.

The yellowed, winter grass was thick and tall around the houses. No one had cut it all year. Windows would break, over time, and the wet would get into the homes. And they'd decay, and fall down.

The roads had debris from summer storms scattered around on them—fallen branches and other scraps. And in the spring, there would be potholes. Eventually, they wouldn't be able to get around by car anymore. Eventually, even Merle's bike wouldn't be able to pass through.

The woods would take it all back.

He started walking the length of the backyard. Thought about when he and Merle scaled the fence, and raced on through it, together.

After months and months—after finding himself pulled out of his old life and given something completely new. After all _that_, he found himself right back where he started.

And he knew he had to go back. Had to see the old house. He felt pulled there—couldn't explain it, just as he couldn't explain how he'd felt watching Carol up above.

And he almost walked to the front to get Merle's bike—_his_ bike, now, really.

But instead, he scaled the iron fence—lightly—soundlessly—just as he had when he was ten. Headed into the woods. He knew the way by heart.

It was time to go home.


	2. Ghost in the Trees

_Here we are! I'm starting to make myself at home in this story. It's been an enjoyable ride so far. I'm starting to wonder if this wintery, grey world is appealing to me so much because of the unremitting heat wave we've all been muddling through here, lately. Anything is possible._

_Anyhow, enjoy! More will be forthcoming, and we'll be starting to really take off into the story. Thanks!_

* * *

_Ghost in the Trees:_

Daryl had just one clear memory of his mother.

It was a dark night in what must have been the late December. He was about three years old.

The hinges creaked on the door to his bedroom—the room where he slept every night his whole life, until the very day the walkers overran the house. And through all that time, that door never stopped creaking when you opened it.

The sound woke him up, and he watched to see who would come in. The warm light from the lamps in the living room poured over the shadows—broke into his quiet, little world from the adult world beyond. The world that his parents shared in the nighttime darkness of the house. His father was listening to something on the radio upstairs—some sort of sports, from the droning rhythm of the commentator's voice. The sound leached down the stairwell and through the open door.

And then a silhouette in the doorway. His mama.

She was a slight woman. Not very tall. Even in the memory, he could see the bones on her wrist as she held his door open. Her thin fingers were clinging tight on that door—as if she was holding it open and bracing against it at the same time.

The wedding ring caught the light on her little white hand.

"Rose!"

His daddy's voice. Calling from that upstairs bedroom—his parents' room. The only room up on the second floor, resting under the sharp angle of the low roof.

"Rosie!"

She turned from the door, into the room. Away from the sound of daddy's voice. She didn't answer him.

And Daryl remembered that she was breathing fast. She put her free hand to her lips, then drew it away_._

"_Rosalie!"_

She stepped into the room. Let the door go. It floated closed—latched gently, and the space filled with cool darkness.

She drifted over to his bed, silent on her bare feet. Leaned over him, and he looked up at her. He remembered her long, brown hair. The lace on the edge of her nightgown. Her white arms.

He could still see her face in his mind. She was so young—would have seemed almost like a kid to him, now.

She probably hadn't known much of anything.

She'd had Merle when she was about sixteen, after all. Wouldn't have had a chance to learn much after that.

And she climbed into his bed, then. She'd never done something like that before. Daryl was sure of that by the surprise he remembered feeling—the uncertainty about what she was going to do. He wasn't afraid—even from this one memory, he knew that she wasn't the kind of person he'd ever have been afraid of. He was just quietly curious.

She pulled him into her arms. Just scooped him up and held him. Looking back, it was the only time he remembered anyone doing anything like that.

And they could hear his father's footfalls above. He was pacing around on the floorboards of that upstairs bedroom. He'd pass right over their heads, and then the sound would fade away to the other side of the house. And back again. His steps made a crisp, firm rhythm against the wooden planks.

Daryl wasn't sure when his mama started crying, but it was a while after that. She clung close—pressed her face into his hair. She wrapped him tight in her arms, and cried for a very long time. The tears swelled into heavy, choking sobs. He could feel the spasms moving through her body.

And over time, she settled, a bit. Laid down with him in the bed, still pressing him close in her arms. Started stroking his hair back with one hand. He could feel her breath trembling on the back of his neck.

Eventually, the shaking rhythm of it put him to sleep.

When he woke the next morning, she wasn't there beside him, anymore. The room was empty. There was cold sunlight on the rumpled bedsheets.

And Daryl never saw her again, after that.

* * *

They'd taken his woods.

The woods of his childhood—the woods that stretched out and out for countless miles behind his daddy's house. As he moved through the early morning cold towards that house, he could see the walkers through the trees.

The shapes moved through the wet fog, here and there—one wandering on the edge of a landrise. Three in a cluster, further out in the distance. They were diffuse—scattered. He wasn't sure how they'd come here, or how they'd spread out that way. But off in the distance, there were even more. Lonely figures, blurred in the haze, wandering aimlessly between the grey birches.

He slipped along, in a low crouch, silently. He knew every corner of this woods, and he'd easily be able to evade them.

But really, he'd rather kill every single one of them.

Just seeing them here quickened his pulse and tightened his muscles with a bare, sharp anger. He'd never imagined they'd take his woods.

It wasn't _theirs_. It wasn't a place for _them_. Let them have the cities, and the towns—but not this. Not _here_.

As he crested a ridge, he saw some more crowded around something on the forest floor below—a fallen buck, perhaps. So he raised his bow, and shot them down methodically from above.

He climbed down to retrieve the arrows. Whatever they were eating, it wasn't a buck, after all—it was too small for that. It might have been a dog, but he wasn't sure from what was left.

He slipped the crossbow over his shoulder, and moved quietly from tree to tree, crouched down low so none of the others would see him in the fog. And he didn't really register them as anything that had ever been human. They were grey and faceless, to him. Ghosts in the trees.

He drew his hunting knife.

He crept nearer to one of the dead, quietly, from behind. It was blocking his path. It only sensed him when he got close, and he struck hard and fast as it turned towards him.

It fell, and he kept pushing on towards home.

* * *

Carol turned the can opener, and the lid split open with a jarring crunch.

She poured the mixed fruit into a bowl, trying not to get too much syrup in there.

She was hard at work in this unfamiliar kitchen, alone—throwing together as good a breakfast as possible for Lori. She had oatmeal simmering on the gas range. When she realized it would light with a match, she'd immediately and automatically thanked God for it. Didn't even realized she'd said that little prayer.

And she turned, and started looking through drawers for potholders.

* * *

Daryl was almost out of the woods.

He passed the maple tree he'd loved to climb as a child—his favorite. The last time he'd seen it, it was wreathed in wide, fresh leaves. Now, he could see the bare bones of its branches—dark against the grey sky.

He went up to it. Laid a hand on the bark. He'd climbed up that tree so many times they could never be counted. He did it when his daddy was in a rage, and it was best to find somewhere to hide. He did it when he wanted to be alone, or when he needed somewhere quiet to think.

And as he stood there, a dead hand reached towards him from the other side. It clutched at the bark. A dead thing stepped out from behind the tree and lunged for him.

He dodged its grasping arms, turned sideways, and seized it by the back of the neck. Then he beat its face against the side of the maple tree. Again and again, as hard as he could, until the brains oozed down the bark.

* * *

The house was coming to life.

Carol headed up the stairs, Lori's breakfast tray in hand, and heard people talking in the rooms around her. Saw a few of the doors hanging open in the hallway. Glenn and Maggie were just outside their bedroom. He was leaning on the door jamb, smiling at her, and playing with her hair. And just as Carol passed them by, Maggie reached up and gave him a playful, tender peck on the cheek.

And she figured they thought she hadn't seen it. But she did—just out of the corner of her eye. A little, stolen kiss.

* * *

Daryl stood in front of the old Dixon homestead.

There was that same sagging porch. The same tired screen door hanging on its hinges. The same dirty windows, and the same tired, hunched-over roof.

It was completely the same, except for the side wall that had burned out and collapsed while he was gone.

There were rotted, desiccated corpses slumped all around the yard. The tall, dead grass obscured them. As the wind blew, it would pull the grass away, and he would see a gnarled, rotted hand. A sagging shoulder. A pile of dried skin or bare bones.

He and Merle had done that, when they escaped. The house was surrounded, and they lit a fire in the back yard, to draw the dead away from the front. Then they killed what remained, hopped on the bike, and bolted.

And now, that seemed like something that had happened to someone else, in a different life.

He stepped up onto the porch. Heard his footfalls in the silence. And then he opened the door, and went inside.

There were dead leaves blown in all over the living room. The side wall was half fallen in. And Merle's room… it was entirely _gone_—burned away and crumbled apart by the rain that got in over the summer.

But Daryl's room—that was still there. And the bedroom door was closed, as if something was hiding inside.

And he paused. _Had_ he closed that door when he left the house that last time?

He thought and thought, and couldn't remember.

He stepped towards it—absently, without thinking. As if he were drawn there by a string. Opened the door, and heard the same, creaking sound those old hinges always made before. The space beyond was shaded and dark.

He almost went in, but he froze in place. He just couldn't move forward. He couldn't even look into the room.

Sometimes he had nightmares that he still lived here—still slept in there. He'd dream that none of this had ever happened, and he was still stuck at home.

And so somehow, he just couldn't go inside.

* * *

The night before, the Grimes family had settled into the master bedroom—the largest, at the end of the hall. The door was open, so Carol didn't need to put down the tray to get in.

When she was rummaging around in the kitchen to find all the flatware, she'd come across a junk drawer. It had one of those silk poppies in it—the kind you used to get for donating to the American Legion.

In a moment of slightly demented whimsy, she'd put that silk poppy in a tiny bud vase, and brought it on up with Lori's breakfast.

Carol put the tray down beside her bed. Hershel was in the room, sleeves rolled back. He'd been working on her.

Rick was at the bedside, and Carl was at a window, looking out into the trees, below.

And Carol turned to leave. She didn't want to interrupt them while Hershel gave her whatever diagnosis he'd been able to come up with.

But Lori grabbed Carol's hand, holding her in place.

"Stay," Lori said, looking at her, searchingly.

And then she looked over at Rick a moment, and then down to the quilt. Her voice was tight and thin, and Carol stepped closer to her.

She was on the other side of the bed from where Rick stood, staring uncomfortably at the floor.

* * *

Daryl climbed the long, narrow staircase that led to his parents' bedroom. He hadn't been up there for many years—even before his daddy died, he never really spent any time in there.

And _after_ his daddy died, he and Merle just left it shut up like he'd left it. Neither of them really wanted to go up in there ever again.

But now that Daryl was in the house, he knew that there was something in that room he wanted to take.

The moment he opened the door, the cold wind hit his face. He could see the trees through the wide, open hole torn from the side of the room. The grey branches stretched on and on for miles. Morning light spilled over the dirty walls—scummy with a film of damp leaves that had blown in from outside.

But the rest was the same as it always was. The bedsheets were still rumpled from when his daddy last slept on them. His mama's vanity table still sat next to the doorway. It still had one of her little prayer cards stuck in the mirror.

And his daddy's footlocker was still sitting by the end of that bed. He stepped over the loose, creaking floorboards there and crouched over it. Unlatched the old thing, and brushed the dead leaves away before opening it.

Underneath all the junk inside—underneath the socks and underwear. Underneath the cartons of cigarettes and random cases of ammunition. Under the stacks of repulsive, violent pornography, he found what he was looking for. The .38 special snub nose revolver, in its plastic case.

He wasn't sure why his daddy had it, but probably for some kind of target practice. Or he won the damned thing in a bar bet. There was no telling, really. And he and Merle didn't bring it when they fled the house because, honestly, they didn't _need_ it. There was just no reason to bring a relative peashooter when they could only carry what would fit on Merle's bike.

But .38 special bullets had very little recoil, and still had enough stopping power to do the trick at close range. It wasn't as powerful as the .44 Daryl liked to carry, and it'd be no good for long distance shooting, but that wasn't going to be the main issue. This thing would stop an assailant who tried to get up close and personal.

It would stop a walker.

And the gun was aluminum—a Winchester Featherweight. Easy to carry.

A woman could handle a weapon like this.

* * *

Hershel packed up the doctor's bag they'd put together for him over the last few months. Rolled up the blood pressure cuff that had been draped over the quilt on the bed.

Carol had her arms folded up around her body. Lori wanted her to stay, but she felt like an intruder.

"Lori, you're experiencing some gestational hypertension. I am reasonably certain that this is a case of full blown eclampsia, and that is very serious."

"Now, did you suffer from eclampsia or pre-eclampsia when you were pregnant with Carl?"

Lori turned towards Rick a moment, silent, then turned back.

"No," Rick said, answering for her, "No, everything was fine with him."

"That's unusual," Hershel said, "I've read some on this subject—my niece. Annette's sister's girl. She was suffering from this same condition last winter."

"In the literature, eclampsia is widely theorized to be the result of an immunological reaction to paternal antigens present in the fetus."

Lori stared at him.

"What—what does that mean?"

"It means that it's a sort of allergic reaction to the father's contribution in creating the child—the body reacts to those genes like a foreign invader. And that's why the disease _usually_ strikes in a second pregnancy only when the baby has a different father from the first."

Hershel continued rummaging in his bag, making sure everything was in order, and shook his head as he continued.

"Or so the theory goes. And, as we can see, there are exceptions to every rule."

Lori's hands tightened on the quilt.

"Now take heart," Hershel said, leaning over the bed. He placed one hand on Lori's shoulder. And Carol thought, looking at his face, that there was some genuine affection in the gesture. He wanted to comfort her.

Carol could see it. Hershel wanted to deliver this baby. He wanted to very, very much. He wanted to see this little family grow.

"This condition is manageable. But people _have_ been known to die from it. And that was with access to the kind of medical care civilization afforded. You are at risk for a stroke, and you could fall into a coma if the seizures aren't strictly regulated."

"We'll just have to be careful. I'll need someone to organize a group to gather supplies. Magnesium sulfate will control the seizures—we should be able to get you stable very quickly."

"But even so, you ought to be on strict bedrest until the baby is born."

Lori shook her head, tried to push herself up on her hands. Rick touched her shoulder, then. She stared at him.

"I feel _fine_."

"Excellent," Hershel said, "Let's keep it that way."

"For now, I'd suggest we move you downstairs so we can keep you warmer and so you can have access to everyone during the day."

"But we _must_ stay here for the duration—we simply cannot travel any further until after the baby's born."

"This is going to be a long haul."

He nodded to Lori, and then turned to Rick, and did the same.

Just then, he finished packing up his bag. Closed the latch, and headed for the door.

"Lori, Rick—make yourselves at home."

* * *

A few hours later, Carol was working in one of the bathrooms. She was on her hands and knees, a bucket of water at her side, scrubbing hard on the bloodstains in the bathtub.

She wasn't sure how they got there, and wasn't sure she really _wanted_ to know. She just worked on them with a bristle brush, a container of bleach, and that water.

On a wooden chair next to the tub, there was a pretty, yellow dress. It was folded in a neat pile. And Carol thought she'd bring it to Beth. It looked like it might be about her size.

There was a little window over that chair. And beyond that, the sweep of the porch, outside.

The night before, that window had been the source of some considerable tension. They'd been trying to find a way in the house. They needed to get in there quietly. Check to see if the house was really empty.

Daryl and Glenn walked the length of the porch, trying the latches on the windows. Scanning the glass for signs of movement inside.

But that little, bathroom window was the only one left unlatched. And neither Daryl or Glenn could fit in it.

When they came back and told them, Daryl shook his head and smiled, slightly. As if the idea that he couldn't fit in there was funny to him, somehow.

And Carl jumped up, then, from where he was crouched, at his mother's side.

"_I'll_ do it."

"No," Lori said, grabbing his wrist from where she was slumped up against the siding. She pulled him back.

"No _way_."

No one else said anything. And Lori glared at them—her gaze finally settling on Rick.

"What? _Seriously?"_

"It hasn't been _scouted_. We don't know what's _in_ there."

"Mom," Carl said, pulling out his handgun, switching off the safety, "I can do it."

"No. Just break a window. Force the door. Try some more on the other side of the _house_."

"But I wanna _help_."

And Daryl was scouting around the windows, and rapped on the glass of one nearby. Stood clear. There were no sounds from inside.

Lori tried to stand, then, and Carol took her by the shoulders.

"Lori, don't get up," Carol said, trying to push her down, gently.

"Don't get up."

Lori got up.

She took Carl's gun out of his hand, and calmly used it to smash open one of the large windows flanking the front door.

"There," she said, stepping back—slipping down onto the floorboards, again.

"Plenty of room."

* * *

Daryl stood in the landing outside his parents' bedroom. The light was shifting, and he could see it was about noon.

He didn't like being here.

It didn't feel _right_. It was as if he thought this place would have dematerialized when he abandoned it—like it would just stop existing the moment he left it behind.

But the house was still here. No matter where he went or what he did, it would just sit here. Slowly rotting, but pretty much the same, otherwise.

Just like the old painted lady with that same, bathroom window. It was still unlatched, after all these years. But he couldn't fit through it, anymore.

And when Lori broke that front window for them, the night before, Daryl was the one to slip through it, into a side hallway. It was dark inside. He couldn't see much in the looming shadows. But even in the darkness, he could see the familiar layout of the house—the same sweeping staircase that was there when he was a child. The contours of those same, wooden faces, staring out from the posts. The same, long hallway where he'd raced with Merle.

He began a careful sweep of the first floor. Approached the front parlor, quietly. Stopped.

There was something on the floor. He could feel it under his boots. Something slick, sticky—half dried up.

He immediately assumed it was blood. But it wasn't. When dropped into a crouch, and looked, he could see it was the wrong consistency for that. He swiped a finger through it. Sniffed the residue. It was wine. A thin film, spread out on the wood floorboards.

And he heard a noise.

Through the French doors directly to his right—shapes moving in the dim light. Five of them, a few yards at his side. They'd been agitated by the sound of the breaking window.

Daryl raised his bow, and backed away slowly, quietly moving down the hall.

He slipped back to front door. Rick, Glenn, T-Dog, and Maggie were waiting for him, just outside. When he opened it, he could see them crowded together, weapons pointed to the ground, staring intently into the darkness behind him.

He immediately drew a finger to his mouth. Quiet.

He whistled, softly. Pointed to the right—to the French doors. Over there. Held up his hand to show how many—five.

In that moment, a sound echoed out of the parlor. The sound of something heavy being knocked over, and rolling across the wooden floor. The walkers were moving.

And so they attacked the dead, together—split into two groups, coming in from either side of the room. Maggie, Glenn, and T-Dog on one side, and Rick and Daryl on the other.

When it was over, they looked around. The walkers had been there for a while. And they trained their flashlights over the room, and got a sense of what happened.

The walkers died in that room. They were surrounded by wine bottles, and the scattered containers of sleeping pills they'd used to kill themselves when they laid down on that living room floor together.

* * *

Daryl stood in that landing for a long time—his parents' bedroom at his back.

He looked down into the living room below, and a flash of memory hit him. He could almost see himself down there, on the floor, playing with Merle. They were just children, sitting together with Merle's trucks. Rolling them back and forth to each other on the floorboards.

There was one of those rare, heavy snows falling outside. He remembered the fat flakes moving in clumps outside the windows.

Their daddy was coming down the narrow stairway. He was heading out somewhere. He left Daryl with Merle a lot—even though Merle was only about ten at the time. Seemed to assume he could keep them both alive until whenever it was he'd come back.

Their mama had been gone a while, by then. The house was getting really messy. The pile of dirty dishes in the sink let off a faint smell, and there was random trash scattered on the floor.

Daddy grabbed his coat from the hook, put it on. And Merle spoke up, then.

"When's mama comin' home?" Merle asked.

He didn't turn around. Opened the door, and spoke through it as he left.

"You don't got no mama," their daddy said, "Get used to it."

That memory. The whole thing was so very, deeply wrong. He'd always thought so—but no one would ever _talk_ about it.

He'd never liked the suspicions it sent creeping around in the back of his mind.

And now, in that winter morning in that quiet landing, he looked up to the ceiling—to the trap door up ahead that led to the crawlspace.

Her things. They were up there. Maybe he'd be able to find something that would give some clue of what happened.

And he stood there, looking up at the trap, trying to decide whether or not to go up. It seemed vitally important, somehow—what choice he made. He could open the hatch, or leave it shut.

In the end, he decided to go up there.

He spent much of the day in that small attic. When he left, a grey dusk was falling as he retreated back into the trees.

* * *

Sunset came early in December. Soon, it would start coming later, again. The days would get longer.

They'd set up a bedroom for Lori in a side parlor—moved one of the beds downstairs, and arranged everything so she could see into the house from the French doors.

When Rick carried Lori downstairs, Carol watched from the bottom of the staircase. And Lori… she was so _tense_. There was a look of cold anger in her eyes as she helplessly let him move her around the house in his arms.

Soon after, Carol brought in an oil lamp for her from the things they'd found stashed away. Pulled up an armchair close to the bed, and lit the lamp on a side table, turned down low.

"How are you?" she asked.

Lori sighed.

"I'm ok."

Carol looked at her, and Lori turned in the bed.

"Really, I'm _ok_. But I'd rather not talk about it."

She smiled, tugged on Carol's wrist.

"Just sit with me."

So she did. They listened to the wind rushing around the porch outside. Rattling the windows. Carol burrowed into her sweater as a draft pierced through the room.

And the front door opened, and closed again, quietly. Carol looked up, through the French doors, and saw Daryl coming in. He had a box under his arm. He paused by the door when he saw her there. He was watching her, and she thought he hadn't realized, right away, that she'd seen him.

And she caught his eyes. Smiled to him, slightly, through the glass. And he nodded back to her before heading on up the stairs.

She relaxed her shoulders. Eased into her chair—it was good to know he was back from whatever he'd been doing all day.

Lori was watching her, then, but didn't really say anything.

And she could hear his footfalls on the stairs, fading away into the distant reaches of the old house.

* * *

Daryl had always enjoyed reading more than he'd been comfortable admitting to anyone. And when he read, he'd never been the kind of person who skipped to the ending.

But this… this was a different matter entirely.

He sat on the bed, next to the candle burning on his nightstand. Looked at the box on the bed. He put the paper bag with its revolver aside. It was the box that interested him now.

He opened the lid. And there was the row of clothbound diaries. His mother's diaries—kept for over ten years. From when she was just a girl until the day she'd vanished.

He'd never looked at them—you don't go reading people's diaries, after all. He'd been vaguely aware they were up in the attic, but no one ever went through her things. It never occurred to him to try.

But now… he took out the last one. It was bound in a pale pink calico—little red roses printed all over the fabric. She'd written "1980" on the spine in black marker.

He opened to the end. The last page. It was written in blue, ball-point pen in a close, tight cursive hand. The pages were yellowed around the edges.

_ 12/28/80_

_ I need to do it. I have to._

And after that, nothing but blank pages. And those blank pages were about as informative as the cryptic comment she'd left there.

And he heard his father's voice in his mind.

_You don't got no mama. Get used to it._

He closed the book, hard. He was starting to feel nauseous. He thought of opening it again—starting from the beginning, but he just couldn't move his hands to do it.

He could move through those walkers without a moment's fear. But he couldn't read this. He could barely _look_ at it.

So he put all ten diaries in the back of a drawer, and tried to push them out of his mind.


	3. Frozen

_This chapter is fairly intense—I am including a trigger warning for its discussion of sexual abuse. There is nothing particularly graphic, but it definitely warrants a disclaimer. Be aware of this before diving in._

* * *

_Frozen:_

The second morning at the house, Carol sat at the kitchen table. It was old, solid butcher block. Age brought out the golden tones in the oak. The morning light swelled over the weathered wood grain.

She looked down at the table. At the mug that was resting there in her hands, with a used teabag cleaved to the bottom. And she realized she'd been toying with the paper tag. Rolling it up in her fingers. It was one of those ones with a stupid proverb printed on the side.

According to the tea bag, today was the first day of the rest of her life.

She was spinning that empty mug around in circles when Daryl stepped into the doorway.

He put a paper bag down on the table in front of her.

"Here."

"What's this?"

"Open it."

And then he just stood there, waiting.

So she opened it.

Inside there was a sturdy, plastic case. She popped the latch.

It was a revolver. She held it in her hand. It seemed very light. The metal was cool on her fingers.

And there was more in the bag. Boxes full of rounds. A holster.

She stared at him.

"You need that," he said.

He'd put some extra holes in the belt, to make sure she could get the holster small enough to fit. She ran her fingers over the leather, and something about those hand-punched holes twisted at her heart.

"Loading this thing's real easy," he said, pulling out the chair next to her. Sitting down.

"This thing here, that's the cylinder. Just rolls right on out."

He showed her. Started to load it for her. Rolled the cylinder back into place. Then pushed it back out again, and turned the revolver sideways. The bullets fell, scattering on the table.

"You cock the hammer before you fire—this thing, here. It's all real simple. You'll get so you don't even think about it."

He showed her the motion on the unloaded weapon. Cocked the hammer, pointed the revolver towards the wall, and fired it empty. The metal made a crisp snap in the morning quiet.

"And you gotta keep it clean or it'll jam on you. There's stuff in the gun box for that. I'll show you how to do it after we try the thing out this afternoon."

"Wait, what?"

"Well, I gotta go out now—we still gotta get rid of those bodies from before."

"But I'll be back _later_, and—"

"Daryl… I don't want to use a gun."

He just stared at her.

"Daryl, _no_."

His eyes narrowed.

"Why the hell _not?_"

He put the thing down, just in front of her, and she looked at him a long moment. She couldn't explain in words. Not in any way that Daryl would understand. She just knew how badly it would go if she tried.

Having the gun would be worse than not having it.

It was more dangerous to have a weapon you couldn't use than to have no weapon at all. It would be far worse to rely on the illusion of security it would give—to act like she would fire straight and calm and steady when the time came.

She knew with a humiliating certainty that she couldn't be trusted to do it.

So she looked down at the butcher block table, heavy with a cold sense of shame. Pushed the revolver back over the wood, towards him.

He didn't take it. Just stood up, glared at her sharply, and stormed out of the room. A moment later, she heard the front door closing hard behind him. Harder than was strictly necessary to get the job done.

And there was movement somewhere upstairs. Footsteps. The rest were waking up. So she put the thing in its case. Scooped up the boxes of ammunition, and the holster. Took it all to her room before starting on breakfast, and hid it in the back of a drawer.

* * *

Carl wanted a Christmas tree.

He rushed up to Carol while she was mixing some powdered eggs, that morning. Asked her to help him put one up.

After the conversation with Daryl, she went out to work the water pump on the well outside. Gathered enough for everything they needed to do. Her arms were sore from the effort, but the time alone in the cold air had been good. She'd worked out her frustration. Shoved that humiliating feeling of self-loathing down into the dark corners of her gut, where it belonged.

She turned, whisk in hand, and Carl almost ran straight into her. She pulled the whisk back to keep from splattering him, and he started tugging on her cardigan—as if he could get her attention better that way.

"Hang _on_, Carl, let me put this down."

"It's _gotta_ be close to Christmas, right?"

He was getting wound up without his mom to watch him. She could see it in his face. He'd been running all over the place all morning. And that was only natural—this house was a child's _dream_. If she was twelve years old again, she'd want nothing more than explore every inch of those winding hallways.

She put down the bowl, wiped her hands on a dishtowel.

Sophia.

She'd be twelve years old forever.

And Carl kept talking to her while she stood there, back turned, dishtowel in hand.

"We could find a tree in the woods, and there's just_ gotta _to be some ornaments in the attic."

She turned and looked at him. The tea kettle started whistling on the old, gas range.

"Carol, come _on_–come up with me in the attic."

She wasn't entirely sure what he wanted most. If it was getting the tree, seeing the attic, or just having someone's complete attention for a few hours.

But whatever it was, he was smiling at her. So she smiled back.

No matter what had happened before—the kinds of things he'd been saying, and doing. Regardless of all that—_this_ morning, he seemed very much like a little boy.

So she couldn't say no.

"After breakfast, ok?"

He lit up, then, and bolted away.

* * *

Carol was eight years old and sitting in her parents' living room, at the piano bench. The Christmas tree was up, and the room was filled with the scent of fresh spruce. The strings of fat, old lights were glowing warmly on the branches.

She could see those lights reflected on the piano—the colors were blooming all over its shiny finish. The heating vents were going on full blast, and she could feel the warm air blowing over her ankles.

The old Steinway had been her grandmother's. She'd patiently taught Carol all the hand positions as soon as she was old enough to understand them. And then how to read music—how to work out the chords. And when she died, her grandmother left the Steinway to Carol in her will.

That particular morning, she was practicing her scales, and her mom and dad were in the kitchen. Fighting.

She knew the rhythms of those arguments, by now. She could feel the pressure rising in the air, like any other storm front. She couldn't hear what they were saying, through the closed door, but she could hear the tone. Dad asked some slightly aggressive question. Mom made a defensive reply. And then they spoke over each other in a tangle—voices clipped and brittle.

And then a pause. It was her mother that broke the silence, first. She said something, softly—something calming, aimed to placate him.

And that's what really set him off. Just like that, they were both shouting at the top of their lungs.

Something crashed to the floor in the kitchen. Pots and pans, or a chair. Then silence, again.

Carol didn't realize she'd stopped playing. She was just sitting there, hands resting on the keys. Listening hard for any sign of what would happen next.

She was frozen in place.

She stared up at the framed watercolors hanging on the wall above her. Native birds, plucking berries from painted branches. And the Christmas lights reflected on the glass, there.

Her father's shadow fell over her before she heard his voice. He was in the doorway, behind her. Had opened the door without her noticing. He stepped forward.

When he spoke, it was quietly. He never really raised his voice to Carol.

"Why aren't you practicing?"

She didn't turn around. Felt her throat tighten and her shoulders get stiff.

She swallowed, hard, and started on her scales, again.

* * *

They headed up as soon as they were done with the washing.

Carl pulled her through the parlor by the hand. Led her towards the stairs, over the stains on the wood from that spilled wine. As they passed, she could feel the warmth from the wide, old fireplace washing over her arms—the side of her cheek. Beth was curled up on some pillows next to that fire, with a book in her lap. She smiled as she saw them go by, and turned back to the pages. Behind her, a beautiful old Steinway rested against a far wall. The light of the fire brought out the rich, cherry finish on the bench, and the closed lid.

And they headed up the stairs—up and up and up to the very top of the house. Looked around for the trap in the ceiling.

And when they found it, Carl jumped up for the pull, and the old ladder unfolded itself to the floor.

* * *

Carol wasn't sure exactly how old she was the first time her father did it.

Thirteen or fourteen, maybe. Somehow the memory was hazy—far away. Like something out of a hallucination, or a fever.

She'd just gotten home from a piano recital—was still wearing her white, eyelet sundress with the purple ribbon at the waist. She had a string of her grandmother's pearls around her neck.

She stood at her vanity mirror. Smiled at her reflection, there. _Everyone_ had been impressed by her playing, that night—she could see it in their faces. No one had performed better.

She was getting very, very good at the piano, and she knew it. Really, it was the _only_ thing she was good at. In every other respect, she was utterly and completely average. Grey. Invisible. This was the only thing that made her stand out.

And she smiled to herself, thinking about what she might play next.

She was just reaching back to undo her dress when he opened her bedroom door.

He pushed at the latch quietly, like he didn't want anyone to hear.

Immediately, she sensed that something was wrong. He stepped behind her without saying anything. Unhooked her pearl necklace with his large, mechanic's fingers. There was grease under his fingernails.

He leaned over her—too close—and laid the string down on her vanity table. As he did it, he spoke, softly, in her ear.

"I really liked that thing you played," he said, "The Mozart."

He meant the _Rondo Alla Turca_. But somehow, she couldn't speak up to tell him.

And he pulled at the ribbon at her waist, and it unfurled. Just fell away. He unzipped the back of the dress for her. And he kept talking, softly.

"You really play beautifully, Carol."

His hand was hot on her skin— pressing close on her shoulder, underneath the eyelet strap. And he slid the dress off, then, and she was standing there in nothing but her slip.

She covered herself with her arms instinctually—hugged her body. And he gripped her forearms—not very forcefully, really—but enough. He pulled them to her sides.

And he looked at her, there, reflected in the mirror.

That was all he did. Just looked.

And she looked, too—stared at them both in the reflection. His eyes were tense and searching—moving steadily over the contours of that silk slip. He was tall over her shoulder, and his hands were still holding her arms.

She froze in place, her breath shaking in the close air.

It was over in moments. He just stepped back, all at once, and left the room. Closed the door behind him. As if making her freeze that way was the whole point.

She didn't really understand what had happened, at the time. It would take years and years for her to fully understand.

But the moment never left her—that frozen moment, standing there in front of the mirror that first time, with the heat of his breath gliding over her shoulder. And she just _stood_ there, numb, and waited for it to be over so she wouldn't need to think about it anymore.

But it was never really over.

She stopped playing the piano altogether, after that.

* * *

Carl bolted into the middle of everything the moment he got to the top of the ladder.

"_Woah!_"

"Look at all this _stuff!"_

By the time she climbed into the attic, Carl was already halfway across the space, dodging boxes. He was starting to get taller—in the middle of a spurt. Looking at him rushing around in front of her, she decided she'd let out the hem on his pants, soon, when she was working on the laundry.

One of the first things she noticed was the faint smell of death. It permeated the attic—had reached all the way to the top of the house from below, where the walkers had been. She could feel it cleaving in her throat.

But she tried to ignore it. Burrowed into her heavy sweater. It was drafty and cold, up here. She could hear a wind rattling the siding, and felt a cool rush of air through the slotted vents, a moment later.

There were small, Victorian rose windows on either side of the attic, under the eaves, and the light moved through them, lazily. There were boxes everywhere—stacked haphazardly in corners. And scattered between them, a chaotic jumble of strange, old things.

There was a coatrack. A set of golf clubs. A dressform. An ancient, hand carved rocking horse with strange, glass eyes.

This was going to take hours.

She smiled, and made to follow Carl. He'd love that this was going to take hours.

He'd already started poking around in boxes.

"Carol, c'mere and _see_ _this!"_ he said, leaning into a cedar chest. The police deputy's hat was hanging on its strap, against his shoulders. The brass fittings caught the light as he rummaged around.

Neither of them noticed the sheet—a white sheet, wrapped around a bundle in the corner, near the trap door at their backs. It twitched, once. Then again. Something underneath stirred.

Something that heard them, and started to move.

* * *

Carol was sixteen years old, sitting on a stone wall down the street from her house. There was a driving rain beating down everywhere, but that didn't really bother her. She was in jeans and a light sweater, hiding under a bright red umbrella. And she was reading one of her old favorites from when she was little—_Watership Down_. The umbrella filtered the light and made the pages look vaguely pinkish under her hands.

And someone was jogging by—running, in the rain. She looked up. It was Eddie Peletier, from school. The best wide receiver on the football team.

He'd been slender and handsome in those days.

"Hey Carol," he said, stopping a moment, breathing hard from his workout. The rain ran down his shoulders, over his soaked, varsity t-shirt. He threw her one of his winning smiles.

"What're you _doing_, sitting there like that?"

She smiled back at him. Swung her blue Chuck Taylors in the air. The stone wall was a little too high for her feet to reach the ground.

"Readin'."

"Out here? In the rain?"

"Yeah."

She looked down. Closed her book, carefully noting the page she was on.

"Don't want to go back inside just yet."

She paused a moment. He waited for her to continue. Bent down, and tightened one of his shoelaces.

"It's my dad. He's… not doing so good today."

She knew Ed's parents—had heard things around town about them. So she was pretty sure he'd understand what she meant by that.

And she thought he'd keep on jogging, then. Head off into the rain. But he pushed up on the stone wall next to her. Sat by her side. Looked at her a moment, and smiled again.

"Your dad's an asshole."

She threw her head backwards, at that, and laughed out loud.

* * *

The walker had been a young woman, once. She'd been in that attic a good while, and the soft tissue was starting to sag a bit against her bones.

This was the first time anything had come into the attic since she'd been there, wrapped up in the sheet. Lying there, waiting.

And that sheet was still tangled on her arms, as she stood up and took everything in.

"Man, it smells _bad_ in here," Carl said.

Carol nodded to him. Stroked his hair back, and crouched back down over the box they were sorting. The walker could see them. The backs of their heads.

"We should've aired out the attic with the rest of the house," she said.

"Hey, here's something!" he said, moving forward, towards an old Christmas tree stand, leaned up against one of the walls.

And it was then they heard the noise.

The walker knocked over a lamp, and they both turned to see it standing between them and the only way out.

* * *

Three months after they sat on that wall, they were lying together in the flatbed of Ed's pickup. He had his hands all over her.

"No," she said, softly, pushing away. And he just kept pressing forward.

"No, not yet. Let's—"

He planted a kiss on her, hard, then, and started unbuttoning her blouse.

And she gave up, and let him.

And six months after that, she was pregnant—seventeen years old, wearing a cheap wedding dress, and sitting in the pastor's office with her mom. Mom was behind her, pinning her bridal veil in place. Carol stared into the mirror propped up in front of them, watching her do it.

And then her mother picked up the pearl necklace sitting on the pastor's desk. The one that had been her grandmother's, once. She carefully slipped it under the veil, and hooked it at the back of Carol's neck.

Then she stood back.

"You look _so_ beautiful," she said.

* * *

Carol was too shocked to scream.

She backed up against the window. Dusty sunlight strained through over her shoulders, and fell over the dead thing's face.

The walker. Her arms… they were slashed open. Deep gashes trailed along the veins—from the wrist up to the elbow. She was naked, and her skin was covered in long rivulets of dried blood.

The bathtub. The bloodstained bathtub downstairs. She killed herself in that bathtub. Cut open her veins, and let the blood flow down the drain so her friends wouldn't have as much to clean up, afterwards.

She could see it as clearly as if she'd been there—the girl taking off her dress, folding it on the chair. Climbing into the old tub, listening carefully to make sure none of the others would interrupt her.

The image floated through Carol and away.

The dead woman stepped forward, and the sheet fell off her completely, then. She moved through the boxes.

And Carol sensed Carl nearby, then, and turned. He was tensed up, eyes darting around the room for some way out.

* * *

After the wedding, Carol had a miscarriage.

When she told her mom, she couldn't control herself, and bursts into tears.

And her mom hugged her. Pulled her close—but tightened a little while she did it. As if she was sensing everything _else_ that had gone wrong in the last few months.

Mom pushed away, and looked at her. And Carol saw it just from that one look—her mother _knew_ how lonely she was. How Ed didn't talk to her at all the way she'd expected him to. How he spent most nights out with his buddies, drinking or whatever else. How Carol knew she'd come home to their cheap apartment that night and almost certainly find it empty. And then she'd spend the evening packing away the baby things from the shower they'd thrown her.

"You could come home, honey," she said, stroking back Carol's hair. Leaned forward, again. Took her gently by the arms, and rephrased.

"Honey… _come home_."

Carol pulled away. Her mom was the one who told her to get married to _begin_ with. And that was pretty serious—Carol thought so, anyway.

It didn't seem right to give up just because the baby died.

And they were doing ok… they had their own apartment, now. Ed was working pretty steadily, and things weren't _so_ bad.

He was talking about signing up for the army.

It wasn't much, maybe, but she was making a go of it as some kind of an adult.

There was no reason to shake things up like that. Especially when going home wouldn't be any better.

"No," Carol said, breathing in hard.

"I'm… I'm good."

"Things are really good."

* * *

It came right at her.

Carol froze, and watched it come.

It was ten feet away, then, heedlessly stepping over the obstacles in its path.

Its hair fell down over its shoulders in long, blonde waves. Carol could see the dark roots at its scalp. The girl had dyed her hair, before this happened. It would have been brown if she'd lived long enough for it to grow out all the way.

It was staring into her body, hard. Right into the soft skin on her throat. It wanted her—wanted to tear into that soft flesh. Even now, it was straining its skull towards her, teeth bared.

Five feet. Carol turned her face away then, looked down. And still she felt its eyes boring into her body.

It was only when it was right on her that she threw up her arms to block it from closing in.

And it took her arms in its dead hands, and it pulled at them—leaning in for her. It tugged her arms away.

Not very forcefully. But enough.

* * *

In the end, she hated Ed more than she'd hated anything or anyone else in her entire life.

More than her father. More than her mother for letting her father do the things that he did. She _had_ to have known. Carol was sure of it.

With Ed, it took a long time to get there. She didn't always hate him. When they started, there was _something_. Maybe it wasn't much. Maybe it wasn't the kind of thing they made movies about. It was small and cheap and ordinary. But it was _there_.

They'd loved each other, once.

Then Ed hurt his back, and he had to quit the army. And the constant pain got the better of him, and he started drinking more and more.

It was sometime after the third miscarriage that he hit her for the first time. In a way, she was surprised it took so very long for him to just get it over with and do it.

She didn't want to tell anyone, when it happened, because she needed them all to think things were good. Needed to think it herself.

Because both her parents were dead, by then. Because there was nothing else to do, and nowhere else to go.

* * *

The dead thing was leaning in, and she pushed back at it—grappled with it. She wrenched herself free from its grip, and grabbed at its arms—at the slashed skin and opened veins. It pressed forward, and Carol was tight against that dirty, attic window. The light illuminated the thing's pale face. Its eyes. There were still hints of mascara on the lashes, and smudges of it around the lids.

And Carl attacked.

He struck it in the face, hard, with a golf club. From the set she'd noticed earlier.

She hadn't seen him go for it. She hadn't really seen much of anything.

The force threw it backwards, away from her and into the attic.

Carl hit it again. Stepped towards it, and struck once more. It staggered on its bare feet, and he pressed on.

He turned to her a moment, cool and steady.

"Stay back," he said.

And he hit it again. Again. Kept on doing it until it backed into a stack of boxes, and lost its balance. It collapsed on the ground, its hair scattering all over its shoulders as it fell.

And he took out his handgun, leaned over the body, and shot it in the head.

* * *

After five miscarriages in fifteen years—after she'd given up all hope—Sophia came.

She gave her daughter her grandmother's name. The name of the grandmother who'd taught her the piano. Carol looked it up in a book before she settled on it. Found out that the word meant "wisdom." And that seemed right, to her.

And she held her baby, in that hospital bed, and strained to understand the overwhelming, aching pull she felt towards her. Towards that small, warm thing in her arms. Her little girl.

And then Ed came in the room. She heard his footfalls outside the door just before he appeared. Carol looked up, and, despite herself—despite _everything_—she smiled at him.

"Well," Ed said, looking over the little baby she was holding. He didn't move to pick her up. Just looked at her.

Then he looked at Carol, straight in the face.

"You finally did something right."

And he walked out of the room.

It might have been the last time he ever really spoke to her. They didn't talk much, after that.

* * *

Carol covered up the dead woman with a sheet—the same sheet she'd been wrapped in before they came up into the attic. It didn't seem right to leave her exposed like that—her bare skin pale in the light from the attic windows.

Then she went and sat beside Carl, where he'd perched himself on a steamer trunk.

"Those other ones we found in the house before," he said, "They must've put it up here in the attic."

He turned to her.

"The dead body, I mean."

She nodded. She knew what he meant.

"It must've been the first to die. Before the rest—then _they_ all gave up, and killed themselves in the living room."

She could hear loud footfalls on the stairwell below. The others had heard the gunshot.

"And they didn't know you turn even if you don't get bitten. I mean, they'd all have shot themselves in the head if they knew that, right?"

Someone was rushing up the ladder then. Glenn. He called out her name. She heard other voices right behind him—Rick. Daryl.

And Carl just kept on talking.

"_That's_ what happened… right Carol?"

"Yeah," she said, putting an arm around him and pulling him close. She hugged him tightly against her side, looking over at that sheet. She could see a strand of blond hair spilling out from under it, tangled on the floor.

And she held Carl close, as the rest came up and saw what had happened. Somehow, she felt like she might cry.

"Yeah, I think that's just about right."

* * *

That night, Carol couldn't sleep. Stared at her ceiling. Watched the moonlight pouring through the window.

Someone had put up windchimes on the porch, sometime in some long ago summer. She could hear them ringing, faintly, far away.

Hours passed that way, until she heard someone on the stairs—and then moving around in the room next door. Daryl. She recognized his footfalls on the wood. She heard him step out of his room, and the light of his flashlight glowed under her door. He was just outside.

And then he knocked. Rapped on the door twice—very quietly. She figured he'd guessed she wasn't asleep, but didn't want to wake her if she was.

She stepped out onto the cold floor. Put on her robe, and opened her bedroom door.

He was standing there in the hallway, still fully dressed from the day, and holding a stack of old, clothbound books in his hands. The flashlight was perched on top of them, and it cast shadows on his face.

"Hey, Carol," he said.


	4. Jesus is Watching

_Here's another installment, ready to go! I will be travelling extensively the next few weeks, and I'll be pretty focused on my work-writing rather than my fun-writing. But knowing my track record, you'll probably still be hearing from me! I'm eager to tell this story, and we're only just now starting to scratch the surface. It's been such a pleasure so far, and I'm so happy you're reading along with me!  
_

* * *

_Jesus is Watching:_

When he woke that morning, Daryl could hardly believe he'd really given her the books. That he'd worked up the nerve. But as he stood in the hallway, looking through the open door and into her bedroom, he could see them there—neatly stacked on the nightstand. She had them in order by year. Held the last one in her hand.

She was at the bedroom window. Dawn was creeping over the window sill, and over the clothbound journal she was holding. Over her pale fingers. Her clean, close-cut nails. Her wedding ring.

She was leaning on the window frame, inspecting the book in the dim light pouring through the glass. It was a bitterly cold, overcast morning, and it would have been too dark to read anywhere else in the room.

She stood there a while, completely lost in thought. There was frost feathered over the edges of the window, etching shapes into the glass. The patterns framed her reflection, there—the spare, unaffected beauty of her face. The strange serenity in her sad eyes—the long lashes downcast, towards the book. And the light moving through that glass brought out the muted color in her closed lips—a faint pink that stood out against the grey clouds beyond the window. Soft, as if she was painted in watercolor.

And a wind rattled the siding, and Carol must have felt it seeping through, because she huddled close into the shawl collar of her sweater.

And she just stood there, quietly. She was _always_ quiet. Even when she spoke, there was something about her voice—something hushed and mild and far away.

Being near her was like being near a pool of still water. It was like being out in some quiet, clear space in the forest, alone.

He slipped away as quietly as he could manage, and she never realized he'd been there at all.

* * *

Carol held the journal in her hands. Felt that light weight—the worn softness of the cotton cover.

Finally, she flipped it open, and the pages fanned out in front of her.

Something fell out. Fluttered from one of those pages. She caught it in mid-air.

A pressed flower. Queen Anne's Lace. She held it in her hand, and the tiny, yellowed petals crumbled into powder.

And she turned to the back of the book. To the last entry.

_12/28/80_

_I need to do it. I have to._

"What was it you had to _do?_" she whispered. As if the book would speak up, and answer.

And she sensed a movement in the yard below. Looked down. Carl. He was rushing out into the backyard. He had a baseball bat in one hand. And then Daryl, walking out after him—fully armed, wearing a thick flannel and that leather vest. She could see the wings from where she stood, up above.

The two walked together towards the back—towards the iron fence. Carl looked like he was talking to Daryl about something, eagerly. His arms were moving. And Daryl stood over him, clearly giving him some stern set of instructions.

And she realized what he was doing. He was taking Carl out into the woods. Because of what happened yesterday. He was going to show him how to hunt the walkers.

Daryl clapped him on the shoulder, and scaled the fence. Carl followed, and they disappeared, together. She watched them go.

And Carol didn't pray at all that morning. Instead, she sat on the edge of her bed. Opened the book in earnest, settling in to read it cover to cover—taking the first step on an entirely different sort of hunting trip from Daryl and Carl's below.

* * *

Daryl followed Carl out into the backyard. The cold air surrounded them immediately—tinged full through with that familiar, crisp winter smell. The windchimes on the porch rang out behind Daryl as he lightly leapt down the sheet slate stairs.

And he caught up with Carl. Reached out for his gun. He took it from the holster, and handed it over.

"I always thought Shane'd take me out my first time," Carl said.

"Well," Daryl said, looking down—checking the chamber. Looking through all its works. Since he'd stolen the thing out of the saddlebags that day, the kid seemed to be taking good care of it. Daryl never really got around to taking him to task for that. But it was pretty much too late, now.

"Plans have got this way of gettin' fucked up."

A pause. Carl was a little jumpy—poking around at the tall grass near the well. He worked the pump, once, and water spilled out onto the ground. There was an icicle hanging from the iron nozzle, and he reached out and touched it. It broke off in his hand.

And Daryl remembered running by that old well, trying to keep up with Merle, when he was younger than Carl is now.

Carl held the icicle in his hand, and looked up at Daryl. And then he said something Daryl never expected—as if he'd read his mind.

"You miss your brother?"

_No._

It was the first reaction he had.

And yet, somehow, he _did_ miss his brother... it was like he did and didn't at the same time. He couldn't understand it, really—the thing was all tangled up in his own head, and he couldn't even begin to unthread the knots.

But he didn't say anything like that, of course. Just gave Carl a stern look over the weapon in his hand.

"_What?"_

"I mean, you were always together _all _the time before he left, and you never talked to _anyone_, and you were so angry when—"

"Look, the thing about huntin' is you need some goddamned _radio silence_. You wanna pull all them walkers on us at once?"

He handed back the handgun.

"So no more talkin', ok?"

Carl nodded.

"And remember—don't use _this_—"

Daryl tapped the gun.

"—when you can use _this_."

And he tapped the side of the baseball bat in Carl's hand.

"And don't you even fucking _look_ at _either_ of 'em before you use _this_."

He rapped his knuckles hard—twice—on Carl's forehead.

Carl smiled.

"Don't talk—think," he said, "… that the idea?"

Daryl nodded.

"Your daddy tell you that one?"

"Yeah… how'd you know that?"

And Daryl smiled back at him, slightly. Shrugged, then clapped him hard on the shoulder.

"Think you can jump a fence?"

* * *

Rosalie wasn't prone to writing whole pages at a time. Somehow, even from the books, Carol got the sense she didn't talk very much. It was pretty much obvious from the start. She was like Daryl. Quiet—withdrawn.

Well over half the entries seemed to be totally meaningless—to-do lists. Lists of groceries. Phone numbers and Bible passages. As if she couldn't really write what she was thinking, most of the time—just focused on what she had to do. What she was reading or working on or concerned with in the moment.

But there were other things. Pressed flowers like that Queen Anne's lace. Autumn leaves, further on. Snatches of poetry. And drawings—pretty good pencil sketches, even if they were obviously made by someone who'd had no formal training.

Drawings of wild things from the woods around the house. Trees. Birds. Flowers. Deer.

Carol flipped through the pages, hunting for more pictures.

There was sketch after sketch of dogs—four different ones, by Carol's count. And Rosalie labeled them by name in her pictures. Scout, Boss, Buddy, and Red. She turned page after page. They were scattered through the whole thing. Rolling in the grass. Running for a ball. Sleeping on the stairs.

And then there was little boy tangled up in a pile with those dogs. He was no bigger than a toddler.

Daryl.

And then an older boy—barefoot, and sitting on a tree branch. Watching a flock of blackbirds in the wind.

She stared at that sketch a while. At his thin, gawkish arms. His fresh face and thick, curly hair.

Merle.

And she turned the page, and found another list—different from the ones she noticed before:

_3/2/80_

_Reasons Why Everything Is Ok:_

_#1: The willow trees are budding  
__#2: The days are getting longer  
__#3: Jesus is watching  
__#4: Daryl  
__#5: We're still here  
#6: Tomorrow's coming_

And Carol turned the page, and read on:

_3/5/80_

_Mama watched the boys and I went out looking on the farm roads this morning. No sign of Edgar's car out there—and he's still not home yet. Didn't tell Mama he lit off, again. Merle won't say nothing about it._

_Saw some brown thrashers in the stand of maples by the Wilkins farm. Jenny was out on her tire swing when I walked on by. Waved. Sweet little girl._

_Those thrashers were mimicking the wood thrush calls like they do. It sounded real nice with the weather getting so it's warmer like it is._

_So it's ok. _

_He'll be back._

She had to be referring to Daryl's father. And Carol turned the page, again, and there was more. And beyond that, more.

Carol forgot to serve breakfast that day, and even forgot to eat it.

* * *

Daryl hung back a little as the first of the dead approached. A slender man whose clothes hung in tatters around his emaciated, withered shoulders. And he trained the crossbow on its head, and nodded to Carl.

Carl moved forward.

Daryl crept around behind, silently—ready to shoot if things went bad. He whispered instructions to Carl, quietly. They both closed in slow circles around the walker. Daryl watched, completely focused, the freezing air misting his breath all around him as he moved.

"Ok," he said, as Carl got close, bat at the ready.

"Get its knee—get its knee."

Carl hesitated, a moment, then sprung forward. Hit a glancing blow off the calf, and leapt back as the thing spun around on him.

"Don't worry, you can still get it. Just knock that bastard down. Hit it nice and low."

Carl ducked under its arms as it tried to grab him, and shifted around to the side. He smacked at the small of its back.

"_C'mon_, Carl. _Think_. Don't gotta do everythin' at once. Set it all up. Come in from the side—_right_. Don't let it see you comin' head on—don't telegraph what the hell you're gonna do."

And Carl got it, then. Got the inside of the knee on one clean strike. It toppled, and he jumped forward, close, and brought the bat down on its skull.

"… _good_."

Carl looked up at him, panting hard.

"_Real_ good, kid."

Then he snapped his fingers, pointed at the crest of a slope to the east.

"Heads up—more comin'."

Three. Too far away to get a sense of what they really looked like.

"You see 'em over there."

"So," Daryl said, "What're you gonna do?"

* * *

The night before, Rick and Daryl were up in the decorative tower that rose above the roof—the highest point in the old house. That tower was wreathed with windows, and the ceiling rose above them in a high arch. Thick cobwebs clung to the chipped paint above like draped curtains.

You could see out and out over the trees, from there. Way out into the streets. And closer, you could see the front and back yard of the mansion, and the slope of the hill where it stood. So they'd taken to using it to keep watch. And Daryl and Rick found themselves sitting up there that night, together—for the first of many nights to come.

Hours passed before either of them said much of anything. But when Rick poured some coffee for himself from their thermos, he finally spoke up.

"Lori's worried," Rick said.

Daryl was walking around in a circle. He was at Rick's back, looking out the windows, there. He turned, and saw the back of Rick's head.

"'bout this mornin'—in the attic?"

Rick nodded. Took a sip from his coffee mug. He had his boots propped up on one of the window sills.

"No reason for it. Carl did great up there."

"Well," Rick said, "There's really more than one way to _look_ at that…"

"Only one way that makes any kinda _sense_."

"If you go and shelter that kid, then the second he's on his own, he's gonna die."

He thought of Sophia, then. Shook it off. And Rick turned his head.

"To Lori, he's _twelve_. He was sittin' in our living room playin' with _action figures_ less than a year ago."

"Well that's fucking over with, ain't it."

And Daryl continued, stepped around to face Rick.

"You can't just go and pretend we're all safe. It's a dangerous goddamned illusion—always _was_. Nothin's _really_ changed. It's _always_ been this way—no one's safe. Not ever. You never know what's around the next corner."

Rick nodded again, gestured at him one-handed, while holding his coffee mug in the other.

"Ok, even then—accepting that's the way to go. There are still some logistical concerns, aren't there? I mean… he's still pretty short, and he's not very strong, yet. How do we teach him without putting him at risk?"

"We don't," Daryl said, "We put him at risk."

"Lemme take him out tomorrow—in the woods. I'll watch him—but it'll be the real deal."

"We'll let him grow into himself. Give him the weapons he can use. Teach him, so he'll reach for 'em when the time's right."

Rick sipped his drink, again. When he responded, he spoke plainly—in that way he had that made Daryl feel so at ease with him.

"Long term, this is the only way. We give him the tools, he'll have a chance."

Daryl didn't say anything. Just nodded. Looked out into the trees. Thought about it. Giving Carl the right weapons—the tools he could reach for.

His own words struck him. The right weapon was different for everyone.

And his mind rushed towards those journals downstairs. He could picture them sitting there in the back of his drawer, down in the quiet house below.

He couldn't take those books up. They weren't what he'd reach for.

But _she_ could do it.

He grabbed the flashlight from where it sat on one of the window sills.

"Hang on a minute, Rick," he said, "I gotta go do somethin' downstairs."

Rick nodded. Shifted in his chair. And Daryl spoke to him from the narrow, spiral stairwell before he vanished into the dark.

"I'll do a sweep 'round the yard before coming up again."

Rick took the last swig of his coffee, stared out into the dark woods beyond the windows. Shrugged.

"Ok," he said.

* * *

As the day went on, a warm front moved in, and it started to rain.

They'd been in the woods for hours, and eventually Daryl took Carl around to the creek—way out on the edge of the woods. The opposite direction from his daddy's house. Didn't want any chance of coming on it with Carl right there.

Daryl had a string of squirrels on his shoulder to take back with them—but he'd let Carl hunt all the dead. He'd only felt compelled to shoot one of them before Carl could kill it. Carl had fallen down an embankment while trying to close with one of them—scraped up his knee and tore his pants. And Daryl didn't take the risk, and shot the thing in the head before it could right itself and grab at him.

The two of them were both completely soaked, and coated with mud.

And the woods opened up around them, and they found themselves near the bend in the creek, where the water was widest. A dense stand of willow trees crowded all throughout the oxbow.

They came out of the woods by the old cemetery down the hill—the front of it was all confederate soldiers, killed in action. There were some Dixons in that burying ground—in the neat rows of tiny, weathered stones.

The rest of the cemetery, further on, was crowded with other memorials—tall statues and obelisks that rose up in the grey distance.

They walked in between the stones in the driving rain, and a shape stepped out from behind one of the cemetery trees.

Carl looked up to him, and Daryl nodded back. He sprung forward.

* * *

Carol sat in the chair next to Lori's bed. They were listening to the rain beating down on the house all around them. It was hard and fast, and there were rolls of thunder in the distance.

She'd heard Lori arguing with Rick earlier in the day—must have fought against the idea of sending Carl out, at first. Must have come around eventually, but wasn't happy about it.

She was tense, but hid it well. The only reason Carol could see it was because she'd been a mother, herself.

And Carol caught Lori looking at the front door, over and over. One of the side windows was boarded up from where she'd broken it when they first came to the house.

* * *

The dead man slipped on the mud as Carl struck him, falling backwards down a slope and right into the arms of a Victorian angel. She smiled at him, sweetly, with her closed lips. Held him up where he sprawled, arms splayed. Raindrops fell off her granite wings. Off the dead thing's fingers, straining out into the wet air beyond.

And it growled at them—looked up to where they stood. Struggled to free itself.

On the hill, out in the open, nothing would be able to isolate the direction of a gunshot, so Daryl turned to Carl, looked down at his holstered gun.

"Go for it," he said.

And Carl drew the weapon, and aimed to fire.

* * *

Carol held an old Bible in the light of the oil lamp, and read to Lori from it. Carol didn't notice, but Lori wasn't listening to her at all—wasn't remotely interested in what she was reading. She was stretched out on her bed, a hand on her swollen stomach, listening to the rain falling outside.

Carol continued, flipped a page, and started in on one of the psalms:

"_The Lord is my light and my salvation;  
__Whom shall I fear?  
__The Lord is the strength of my life—  
__Of whom shall I be afraid?  
__When the wicked came against me  
__To eat up my flesh.  
__My enemies and foes—  
__They stumbled and fell__—"_

At the sound of the door opening, Carol cut herself short.

Carl went rushing in, straight for them, trailing mud across the wood. There was mud in his hair, on his clothes. His mother sat up, and he climbed right into the bed with her. She put her arm around him without saying anything. Got mud all over her shirt without a moment's thought.

* * *

When Carol opened her bedroom door, the night beforehand, she knew it was Daryl standing out there, knocking. But she didn't know he'd be carrying that stack of books. They had rows of dates written on the spines, in black marker. She could see them in the piercing glow of his flashlight.

"Hey, Carol," he said.

She looked at him, one hand on her bedroom door. He nodded towards it.

"Can I, uh—"

"Oh, yeah. Sure."

So she stepped back, and let him in.

"Here," he said, handing her the book off the top of the stack.

She opened the book. Took the flashlight from him, and held it under the beam. Saw the name written on inside the cover, in plain, blue ink.

_Rosalie Anne Dixon_

She looked up at him in the dark.

"Were these—"

"My mother's diaries. Yeah."

She ran a finger down the spines of the books stacked there his arm. They were dusty. Each had a year—or sometimes two—written on the spine. From 1980 all the way back to 1966.

Carol's finger lingered on that last number, on the earliest journal in the stack, right above his hand. That was the year she'd been born.

"Wait… where did you _get_ these?" she asked, "You couldn't have been carrying them around this whole time."

He hesitated, and she stood in the darkness at his side, and waited.

"I… grew up here."

She looked around the room, shocked. Stared into the dim shadows. Felt as if she were seeing it for the first time all over again.

And he rolled his eyes at her in that way he had. She couldn't really see his face, but she was sure he was doing it.

"Not here in this _house_—but just a couple miles away."

"Just a little stroll through the woods… went back and got 'em. Yesterday."

She looked at the drawer. Where she'd stashed the gun.

"And the revolver…"

"Yeah. That was my daddy's."

"What happened to them? I mean, to your parents?"

"Did they… turn?"

"Nah. They were both dead long before all of that."

He paused a moment. Then he pressed on.

"Well… we _think_ so, anyway."

_We_. He meant him and Merle. He still did that sometimes—even though he rarely brought Merle up. She was still waiting for the day he'd speak of his brother in the past tense.

"Now our daddy, he was into all sorts of shit—you name it, really. But he didn't OD—always thought he _might_, someday… but the drugs got him another way. A stroke. Knocked him out flat—into a coma. Couldn't breathe on his own. They got this nurse to shut off the machines and that was that."

"But our mama…"

"She's _gotta_ be dead… but we don't know how. Never found out _why_."

"She just went and disappeared—some thirty years back. I don't really remember her much."

She thought back to that time. 1980. Right around the time her father really started in on her. Strange to think of all this happening to Daryl, some hundred miles away, at the same time.

"And it's more than that… it's _how_ she disappeared. She just doesn't seem like the _type_ to run out on us—'sides…I really don't think she had anywhere to _go_."

"I mean, look at this here," he said, leaning over her, flipping to the back of that last book, awkwardly balancing the rest of the journals in the crook of his arm.

He took the flashlight, angled it toward the page with his chin, and she looked into the glow.

_12/28/80_

_I need to do it. I have to._

"That's the last thing she ever wrote down in there. That's it. The end."

She touched the page, where he held it open. Brushed the ink with the tip of her finger.

"Do you know what she meant by it?"

"No idea. But whatever she had to do, I'm thinking she didn't live very long after she went and did it."

"You think…"

_You think she was murdered._

She didn't say it. Just trailed off.

"Yeah—well... _maybe_..."

He shrugged, closed the book. Let out an exasperated sigh.

"I dunno."

"But… I wanna find out."

"And we _can_ find out. There's _gotta_ be a reason we ended up back here again. It _can't _be random chance."

He believed in signs. Read them like he read tracks on the ground. She knew it. There were some elaborate ideas about the real nature of things hiding inside his head—under all that unkempt hair and sweat and dirt.

He put his faith in those signs, and acted on them. And that was what he was doing now. But she didn't say a word about it out loud.

In her experience, his portents had a way of turning out wrong.

He was surrounded by the ghosts of invisible people—his lost family. They followed him around like that chupacabra he insisted he'd seen. Merle. His father. And now this—his mother. And all of them were gone. They were just as much of an illusion as that demon dog. Only real inside his head.

She went to sit on the edge of her bed. Wrapped her arms tight around her body.

"So… here," he said, placing the stack of books down on her nightstand. Sank onto the bed to sit next to her.

"Take 'em."

"You want me to read them," she said, looking to him, sitting at her side. He nodded, once, the harsh glow of the flashlight moving over his face.

"Find her for me. You'll see it—whatever's in there."

He got up, then, and she could hear the bedsprings creak as he did it. He stepped away from her.

"_She's_ in there… somewhere. In those pages. Waitin'."

He stood in the doorway, a moment. Lingered there, looking back at her in the dim glow of his flashlight.

"You'll find her. I know you will."

* * *

Daryl stood outside the painted lady, in the dark. He was walking the perimeter. Moving around the iron fence, staring into the dark. It had stopped raining. He walked over the damp earth, listening intently as the wind moved through the trees.

A full day had passed since he gave Carol the journals. The night had settled in, again. Carl was safely asleep somewhere upstairs—curled up in that master bedroom, with his daddy. Scrubbed clean of all the mud and blood from their hunting trip.

And Glenn and Maggie were up above in the tower, keeping watch for the night. But Daryl knew he'd sleep better if he checked things out himself.

He turned the corner and came into the front yard. Noticed a dim, flickering light in the kitchen windows.

Carol was sitting there, framed by one of those windows, quietly leaning over the kitchen table.

She was sitting with a single candle, hovering close over it, reading. She had one of those journals open. Next to it, she had a sheet of paper. Was scribbling something to herself. Taking notes, leaning her chin on one hand.

And a wind moved through the trees, and a dead leaf floated down into the yard from above.


	5. Joyful Noise

_I don't have much to report, this time—I'm back from the first in a series of travels, and I'm leaving on another stint tomorrow morning. I'll be off in rural Ontario for a full-on writing marathon—work writing, sad to say. But the quiet will do me good, and we will see what I can bang out for you in the evenings. We're moving along, here. Thanks for sticking in there with me!_

* * *

_Joyful Noise:_

Carol spent the next two weeks drifting through the house, going through the motions of her work, and thinking about those journals.

She sat with Lori. Fed everyone from what the others scavenged. Cleaned up after them, and washed their clothes. Pumped bucket after bucket of water from that well. Patched T-Dog's jacket when he tore it on a loose nail.

She was busy for countless hours, trying to keep up with everything that needed to get done. And the whole time, she never went past the fenced-in yard of the painted lady.

But through those books, she wandered far.

She read and read—moving through the journals with a slow, focused deliberation. She travelled miles and miles, through long years and pages, deep into the past.

It was the last of the journals that really struck her. That last year. The rest of them told the same old story—common to many young mothers she'd known. Ones who grew up poor. There were the girlish hopes and the young love, followed by disappointment after disappointment after disappointment. Early pregnancy and marriage and just trying to get through each day—traipsing through a life you'd fallen into essentially by accident.

It was the life Carol expected to find in those journals before she ever opened them. It was the life she'd lived herself.

But that last book. That one was different. Whenever she had a few spare minutes, she'd slip up to her room and open it again.

Slowly, she started to notice threads. There were things _hiding_ in that book—waiting to be discovered. And she was starting to see the entries as if they were alive—moving—pushing forward toward some sort of crisis. They led in a straight line to that last entry on that last page. To whatever Rosalie—_Rose_, as Edgar seemed to call her—felt she had to do.

And in her own notebooks, Carol started reorganizing everything she found in that journal—teasing out the threads, and weaving them together. And so Rose started to tell her stories.

The first one was about Merle.

* * *

_4/5/80_

_I heard something out in the yard this afternoon—way in back near where the woods start and the grass gets really tall. So I went outside looking, and it was Merle. He was crying really hard. All curled up in the grass—burrowed up in it to hide._

_I walk over and he hears me, and he looks up and *screams* at me. Not even in words, really—just some sort of long howl. Like the dogs when someone kicks them. _

_I had no idea what to do, and I just stood there. And he didn't want me there. Started throwing rocks right at me until I ran back into the house._

_I've been upstairs ever since. Don't want to go down below. I can hear him moving around down there._

* * *

Daryl gave her those journals, and then he waited. Didn't ask her about them. He saw her reading them, sometimes. Taking notes. And he knew she'd let him know if she found anything.

Two weeks passed before Carol mentioned them to him again.

When she did, they were sitting at that butcher block table in the kitchen, early in the morning. On his way down the stairs, he'd smelled the coffee brewing, and stopped to drink some with her before he went out hunting.

As usual, they didn't really say much. Just sat. It was already clear it would be a sunny day. The bright light cast her shadow onto the wall behind her. He could see the contours of her face, there—the curve of her lips and her eyelashes, silhouetted in grey on the plaster.

"Daryl?"

Her voice startled him. He'd been concentrating on her shadow, and hadn't expected her to say anything. He looked up, and caught her eye.

She picked at the cuff of her sweater.

"Where's the public library?"

He put down his mug and looked her over.

"You plannin' a book report?"

"They keep archives," she said, "There'll be newspapers… in storage somewhere, or on microfilm. Something'll be there."

He watched her, and she continued.

"The diaries aren't giving me enough," she said, "She didn't know what to write down for me… you know? She didn't know what we'd use these things for—what would be important, later."

He nodded, looking down at his cup. It made sense. After all, she hadn't known she was going to die.

"So," he said, "You think there might be a report in the papers 'round that time?"

"There's _got_ to be something. In the police blotter, or something written up about an investigation. People don't just _vanish_, right? They didn't _before_, anyway. They left a trail..."

And now, sometimes, they didn't—or not in the way she meant. And they both paused, and Sophia stood between them in the quiet.

Then Daryl shook his head.

"I dunno."

It was all he said. He knew it was a bad idea. Dangerous. And yet, like her, he felt a strange pull towards trying it. There might be something there. In some box somewhere, waiting. An answer, covered in dust.

She leaned over, then, and looked him in the eye. Laid one hand on his arm.

"Daryl," she said.

Somehow, that was all it took. He found himself telling her to get her coat.

* * *

_4/6/80_

_It's going to be ok, though. I watched Daryl running in the grass with the dogs all afternoon. They love him so much. They were all piled up outside the door of his room this morning—slept there, waiting for him to get up. I might start letting them in there to sleep, sometimes, with Daryl._

_Sometimes it's almost like he's one of them._

* * *

And so twenty minutes later, he found himself standing beside Carol on the empty town green. The morning was silent, and the sun glared on the ground.

There was a fallen tree on the grass. It had toppled in a storm, and crushed part of the whitewashed gazebo.

The shabby storefronts lined the streets on either side. Even before, they'd always looked pretty bad, but now _everything_ was falling apart. Some windows were broken—probably by scavengers—and some of the awnings were torn by the heavy, summer rains. And those awnings had gathered leaves and debris, since they'd been left out all year.

And there were weeds pushing through cracks in the pavement. The brown, winter grass on the town green was tall. It crowded the memorial cannon. Choked its granite plinth.

The forest was already creeping in. Making a slow approach, and taking hold.

And he scanned the area for any sign of movement. But there was nothing. On their supply runs, he and Rick hadn't come across much trouble. Just scattered walkers—a few at a time. Easy to handle. And he knew the town had mostly been evacuated before things got really bad.

Still, the quiet made him nervous. More nervous than mobs of dead would have done—if he knew where they _were_.

And he was painfully aware that Carol hadn't brought the .38 special. She was totally unarmed.

Even so, that she wanted to leave the house at all seemed like a step forward. He wasn't sure that she'd ever really ventured out from one of their base camps since he'd _met_ her. She searched for Sophia, and that was it.

And yet now she was standing there next to him, out in the open air, arms wrapped tight around her body, burrowed into her coat and scarf.

They looked up at the stone inscription above the doors, together:

_Harmony Public Library_

_Jubilate Domino Omnis Terra Vociferamini_

"Harmony," she said, quietly. The name of his town. She hadn't known it, before.

"Yeah," he said.

"Downright descriptive, ain't it?"

She smiled, slightly. Caught his eye from the side, and nodded to him.

He tried the door. It was locked. He went back to the bike for the crowbar he'd brought, in case he needed to force the door. And she called after him.

"Hey Daryl?"

"Yeah?"

"What's the motto up there say?" she asked.

He shrugged, and leapt lightly up the stairs. Positioned the crowbar, and braced to wrench at the lock.

"How the hell would _I_ know?"

* * *

_5/2/80_

_Merle hit Daryl in the face with one of the toy trucks. He's bleeding pretty bad. Can't take him in for stitches without figuring out a way to explain it. So I'm trying to just hold it all together with tape._

_I think it was the dogs that got him wound up enough to do it. Merle, I mean. He went for Scout—wanted to throw the ball, and Scout hid under the bed from him. I could have told him Scout would do it. The way he is with those dogs, he should have known it himself._

_And Scout wouldn't come out for anyone but Daryl. And that was just minutes before Merle went at him._

_And just now Merle came up to Daryl as if he wanted to keep on playing. As if nothing had happened at all. And Daryl went and hid behind my leg. And Merle looked so surprised—like he didn't have the first clue why he was trying to get away from him. God._

_I told him to go outside. He stared me down for a good minute before he left. And really, I wondered if he was going to try and hit me, then. _

_But he didn't do nothing. Just left._

_I don't know._

* * *

The lock gave, and he pulled open the old, wooden door. It was covered with wrinkled fliers—bills taped onto the wood, advertising church sales and high school football games that never happened.

And the cool, grey space opened up beyond them. The library stacks. The circulation desk. The high ceiling with its old, oak beams. Rows of shabby books with clothbound spines. Cracked, old plaster on the walls.

And silence, and shadows, and nothing.

He slipped the crowbar into his bag. Rolled the crossbow from his shoulder, and raised it. Stepped partway inside. And he turned to Carol, standing there beside him. She had one hand on the door. And her wedding ring caught the light, there, on that hand.

"Keep quiet, and stay behind me."

* * *

_5/5/80 _

_But really, he's so young. I can still see what he looked like when he was really little. It's still in his face. And he's got a beautiful face. He's got such pretty eyes._

_He's just a little boy. It's going to be ok._

* * *

They crept through the main room, and through the stacks. Carol followed along behind Daryl, searching the distance for any sign of movement. They skirted the walls, together, moving as quietly as they could.

And there was still nothing. Empty silence.

"Let's try downstairs," he said, leaning in towards her, speaking very softly—under his breath.

"There's a storage room down there. Think that's where they kept the old periodicals."

And Carol noticed, then, that Daryl seemed more familiar with the building than she would have guessed. She started to imagine him as a kid, hanging around the place. Spending time here to avoid going home. Carol had spent a lot of time at church after school let out. She'd practice on the organ. Or the piano at the side of the altar, near the big, stained glass windows. All alone in the sanctuary, with the lights turned off.

She imagined a library might be a pretty good place to hide, too.

He found a door to the stairwell, and carefully opened it.

"Stay close," he said.

* * *

_5/21/80_

_There are hounds in the hollow  
__And birds in the oaks  
__And dust on the roadside  
__And stones in the grass  
__And bones in the soil  
__And floods in the sky  
__And words on the water  
__And God in his heaven  
__And I'm in the doorway  
__With the rain on my face_

* * *

It was very dark down in the archives. Carol couldn't see much of anything.

On a far wall, there were some windows set up high—opening onto some kind of courtyard shared with the local high school. But that wall was far enough away that Carol couldn't see it—didn't know it was there. All she could see was the light from those windows, flowing dimly over the stacks.

There were rows and rows of metal shelving, each weighted down with piles of cardboard boxes, and magazines collected together in binders by year.

Daryl reached into his bag, and handed her the flashlight. She turned it on, and they moved forward.

* * *

As she read and re-read the entries, Carol noticed a large gap in the timeline. Rose didn't write much of any real substance through the whole summer of 1980. Just lists and hand copied Bible verses and names and phone numbers. And Carol spent days hunting for a reason, crouched over that book with a candle, after everyone else had gone to bed.

It was only when she started looking through the folded up bits of paper—the ones that had been wedged in between the pages—that she figured out why.

Most of those papers were receipts and church bulletins and other random, meaningless scraps. But one of them was a newspaper clipping—an obituary. The shortest obituary she'd ever seen.

_Anne Connely, 51. Sole survivor Rosalie Anne Dixon. Service TBD._

Rose's mother died, and for some reason, that was all anyone had to say about it.

And Rosalie… it seemed like she was the sort who would go quiet in the face of that. She didn't pour it out on the page. She held back. Retreated into her to-do lists and groceries and that rote schedule of Bible study.

The clipping was the only reference to her mother's death at _all_—the only one in the entire journal.

Rose lived in her head. She didn't speak out. Didn't _do_ anything. She just watched, and worried, and thought.

And Carol tucked that clipping away—back into the book. Put down the journal. Walked out of her bedroom and made her way up the stairs—up and up to that tall observation tower.

Carl was up there, keeping watch. He had the binoculars in his hands when she made it to the top.

"Hey Carol," he said.

And she walked right up to him, and pulled him into her arms, and hugged him. Kissed his forehead.

He smiled, and pushed her away.

_"Jeez_, Carol."

"Let me keep watch a bit," she said, stroking back his hair and taking the binoculars out of his hand, "You go downstairs and check on your mom."

* * *

Carol had the flashlight in hand, and walked quietly between the boxes. Read the labels—looking for the newspapers. Daryl drifted away from her, scanning the areas he hadn't scouted, yet, and left her at his back.

She found the old newspapers—boxes of them, sorted by publication and year. She was just about to start checking the shelves for the right dates when Daryl reappeared at the end of a stack—stepped out of the shadows silently. He came up on her so fast she almost walked into him.

From his face, she knew something was wrong before he said anything.

"They saw the flashlight."

That was all he said. And he grabbed Carol's arm and pulled her away.

She didn't have to ask him what he meant. They just rushed through the shadows. And soon she was close enough to the far wall to see the shapes moving there—the outlines of legs up above in that courtyard.

And when a window shattered, she started at the sound. It was close by.

He led her down through the rows of boxes, towards the nearest exit.

* * *

Only one entry from that entire summer really struck Carol—drew her attention. It was a little note scrawled out on one page—standing there by itself, slightly off center.

A tiny phrase of music—written out on a shaky, pen-drawn stave. Carol was a little surprised that Rose had known how to do that.

And Carol tried to hum through the tune, but she couldn't—it'd been far too long since she'd played anything. She'd long since forgotten how to read a melody by sight. So she walked downstairs—down to the front parlor where the old, cherrywood Steinway rested against the back wall.

Carol opened the piano. Stood in front of it, and stared at the keys. Hesitated. Ran her fingers across them. There was a light film of dust, there.

Then she played the melody, one handed. Slow. A simple, open, haunting minor key.

And she hummed it to herself, after that. It sounded familiar. So she opened the bench and crouched over it. Rummaged through the loose sheet music and old, bound books. Found a Wesleyan hymnal, and started flipping through the pages, looking for the right key signature and the right notes.

And there it was. Somehow, she'd known it would be there.

So she sat down at the bench, then, and put the book out in front of her. The spine was old and cracked, and it lay flat against the stand. And she tried out the chords—slowly, at first—but things started coming back faster than she could ever have imagined.

It was a simple tune, and she could still play it. And she did.

The sound floated richly through the house, and the others heard it. Started drifting into the room to listen. They watched her from the doorways. She could feel them at her back. And Beth walked up, and leaned over Carol's shoulder, looking at the hymnal. Her blonde hair was loose, and a strand of it clung to Carol's arm. And she started to sing the song in a quiet, trembling soprano:

_And am I born to die—to lay this body down?  
__And must this trembling spirit fly unto a world unknown?_

_A land of deepest shade, un-pierced by human thought—  
__The dreary regions of the dead, where all things are forgot._

_Soon as from earth I go, what will become of me?  
__Eternal happiness—or woe—must then my portion be._

And the notes hung in the air a moment before fading away. And the silence draped over them. Carol looked back, and saw everyone standing there. Everyone but Lori, who was watching from the adjoining room, sitting up in her bed. Daryl was leaning in the doorway, looking at her from the far end of the room.

And everyone just stayed quiet. The kind of quiet you get in a crowd of people, when they're all thinking.

"What else can you play?" Beth asked, breaking through that moment at last.

"I'm not sure," Carol said, "Just look through the book and see what you like."

Beth smiled, took the hymnal, and started flipping pages.

"Something easy, though."

"It's been a while."

* * *

Daryl clutched at Carol's arm, and pulled her with him through the darkness. There was a rear exit a few rows down, and she guessed it would lead out into the alley beside the library. They could circle around to the bike from there, and get out.

More glass shattered in the dark. She couldn't see anything, yet, but she could hear the familiar, throttled groans of the dead. The sound floated through the rows of silent stacks.

And from the corner of her eye, she caught the date on one of the boxes as they rushed past.

She tugged back at Daryl, then, pulling him to a stop.

"Wait," she says, "It's right _here_."

He shook his head.

"No time," he said, and pulled her away.

Carol pulled back. Tugged at him.

"_Daryl!"_

He leaned in close then, hissed at her.

"Come _on!"_

His hand was tight on her arm, then, and he dragged her forward with him.

* * *

_10/3/80_

_I couldn't get out of bed today._

_Daryl sat on the floor and watched me a while—I could hear him breathing, when I rolled over to throw up, and I saw him there. One of the dogs was next to him, I think. I could hear the collar jingling around. Don't know where Merle is._

_I better clean things up. Better go downstairs before Edgar gets back. I've got to feed everybody something or other._

* * *

Something fell over in the darkness. There was a muffled sound of paper scattering all over the linoleum.

Daryl wasn't sure how many were getting in. The windows were high, so it would take them a while to push their way through, and to find the two of them, hidden in the shadows.

There must have been a large group trapped in the high school—only now beginning to make their way out through some broken window or open door.

And then he was at the exit, and he tried it. Locked. The morning sunlight flowed in from the small windows cut into the wooden door. It fell over his face. Through the glass, he could see the side wall of the post office, next door.

He reached into the bag for the crowbar. Started to work to force the door open. Let Carol go, then, since he needed both arms.

She turned, and looked deep into the shadows. Into the stacks where that box was waiting.

* * *

_10/6/80_

_I need thicker cover up. It isn't working. I'll go to the Caldor and see what they've got at the counter._

* * *

He threw all of his weight against that cheap lock, and finally he heard the thing splintering apart. The door swung open, and cold air rushed in over his face.

He turned to Carol. Reached for her. And she yanked her arm away before he could take hold of her, and stepped back into the darkness.

* * *

_10/27/80_

_Oh God. It was so pretty out today… it was so clear and warm and blue and nice… one of those fall days I remember loving so much when I was a little kid. Running in the fallen leaves and the smell of them in the sun… so of course I let the dogs out and Daryl was tripping around after them in the yard for hours. And I stayed inside and sat at the back door and watched, and read my scripture for the day._

_And I got sort of absorbed in it, and he came up and surprised me—he was tugging on my dress—and he left a mark there. There was blood on his hand._

_I looked down, and he was _covered_ in blood, and I almost died._

_He led me back through the grass—out past the oaks near the hollow by the laurel trees. And I could see there was something there. When I got closer I saw Scout, just slumped over—surrounded by rocks and broken bottles and other things. Someone threw enough of that stuff at him that he was stone dead. _

_There was so much blood. Poor Scout's face—it was a mess. Pulp. And Daryl went back to sitting with him—petting his fur—right where he'd been before he came inside for me. I tugged him away and he didn't want to go. I don't think he understood._

_It had to be Edgar who did it… not that he'll ever tell me. But it just has to be him._

_If it wasn't him, it was Merle._

_God please oh please don't let it be Merle._

* * *

He stepped towards her. He knew exactly what she was thinking.

"_Carol_…"

She shook her head.

"We'll _never_ get back in here once they all break through," she said, "This is our only _chance_."

"Then _fuck_ _it_."

He stepped forward, trying to seize her arm. And she backed away, again. Glared at him, hard. She clearly didn't want him grabbing at her, no matter the reason. And that look pierced right through him. Made him hesitate.

And that was all the time she needed to back away, out of reach.

"Cover me," she said, and darted into the dark stacks beyond them. They swallowed her up, and she was gone.


	6. MD Forever

_Hello from northern Ontario, where it is gorgeously cool and where I have a wonderful friend with a proclivity towards baking me pies. And pie must be the food of creativity, for I pretty much sneezed out this chapter fully formed last night. And now, at long last, you and I both get the pleasure of making the acquaintance of one Edgar Dixon. Enjoy, friends!_

* * *

_M.D. Forever:_

There was only one drawing of Edgar Dixon in any of the diaries. A surprisingly detailed and realistic portrait, posed in three-quarter profile. And Carol thought that it was far and away the best thing Rose had ever drawn.

When Carol turned the page and saw it for the first time, it caught her breath. It didn't belong in a book. It belonged on a wall, in a frame, where people would come and look at it.

And it struck her that she was probably the _only_ person who had _ever_ looked at it. Rose drew it, turned the page, and it didn't see the light of day until Carol held it in her hands.

Edgar Dixon stared out into the middle distance from that page. And he looked so much like Daryl that it was hard, at first, to tell the difference.

But as she looked at the picture, her opinion started to change. The face. The eyes. There was something about them. Something different.

By the time she'd closed the book, she'd decided that the portrait looked nothing like Daryl at all.

* * *

Daryl pushed through the library stacks after Carol, scanning for any sign of movement. The dead would be right on top of them at any moment.

When he caught up to her in the darkness, she was crouched over the box with the flashlight pinned between her ear and her shoulder. She was throwing aside the papers with the wrong dates—sorting frantically and hunting for whatever it was, specifically, that she had in mind.

He dropped to her side. He could hear the dead in the stacks, creeping around, looking for them.

"_Carol!"_ he hissed, seizing her free shoulder. She shook him off without a word, and kept right on sorting through that box.

* * *

Once in a very great while—maybe a handful of times he could remember—Daryl's father tried to have a conversation with him.

Usually Daddy was drunk or high on something at the time. And he would be holed away in that upstairs bedroom.

Daryl's daddy spent pretty much all of his spare time up there—every day, for as long as Daryl could remember. He'd pace around on those loose, old floorboards and they'd creak and complain under his weight. It was like the house was groaning in pain under the press of his feet. And sitting in his own bedroom, downstairs, Daryl would listen to those heavy footfalls, and to the house straining to hold him up. It was as if the whole structure might collapse at any moment.

One of his daddy's attempts at conversation fell on a dark night in the late December—three days after Christmas, when Daryl was seventeen years old. There was a very light mist of freezing rain coming down outside. Daryl could see it clinging to the window panes—the beads of ice glowing against the light of his bedside lamp. He was perched on his bed with his carving knife, whittling a little bird out of a piece of soft pinewood. A sparrow, with its wings spread out to fly—the feathers and their patterns standing out in fine relief against the surface. He carefully formed each pinion—working in the patterns, there, slowly and quietly, in peace.

The house was pretty quiet, for the most part, these days. Merle was off somewhere with the Marines. He'd flown the coop—made it out. Had been away about three years now, for the most part, and seemed to be pretty damned pleased with the arrangement.

Sometimes Daryl wondered if he'd ever really come back home again.

And that left Daryl stuck there, alone with their daddy. He tried to avoid him as much as possible—but Daryl had the scars to prove that you couldn't always hide from the old man.

He'd put out his cigarette on Daryl's arm the other day, for no reason Daryl could understand. Just leaned on in and did it out of nowhere. Didn't even _look_ at him while he did it. Just kept staring off into the middle distance. Dropped the burnt-out stub—still smoldering—and walked away.

When he did things like that, it was entirely different from how Merle would get. Merle's anger was red and seething—passionate. Daryl didn't always come close to understanding how Merle really felt about him—never entirely wrapped his head around the fucked up sort of love that drove him to do the things he did. The whriling hole of unsatisfied need in his center that Merle couldn't even begin to control. Daryl had some _inkling_ of it, but couldn't put any of it into words.

In any case, he knew Merle was feeling _something_ when he came after him—beat on him—made fun of him, or tried to hurt him. Merle was a firestorm of feeling, really. It was out of control and larger by far than what one man's body could contain.

Daddy, though… Daryl sometimes wondered if he had feelings at all.

In his earliest memories, the man towered over everything. He was a cold, stony, distant god—pacing back and forth in his upstairs bedroom as if it were the heavens over their heads. And nothing much had changed since then.

And at seventeen years old, it seemed to Daryl like it never would.

And sitting there, with the sparrow in hand, he heard Daddy's voice, from upstairs.

"Daryl."

He looked up from the little bird and his carving knife. Put them down on top of the high school textbooks on his nightstand. He wiped the pine dust off on his pants, and stared at the ceiling up above him. His daddy's voice echoed down from the vents—weirdly muffled and strange as it moved through the wood and plaster.

He didn't shout, but Daryl could hear him clearly all the same.

"Daryl, come on up here."

There was nothing to be done for it. When you caught the old man's notice, there wasn't much hope of getting out of it again.

So he climbed those steep stairs to the second floor—the bedroom there. The door was hanging open, and he pulled at it. A single, exposed bulb dangled above his daddy's bed. It cut through the room harshly, and everything was yellow light and black shadow.

And he looked around. His daddy was sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, leaning one arm against the side of his footlocker. He had a beer in his hand, and several empties strewn at his feet. A number of full or half-full bottles were standing on top of the footlocker, and Daryl could smell the acrid stench coming out of them.

The stuff had long since gone bad, but Daddy didn't care.

The hail hit the windows outside, and the hard wind. They creaked against it, and the chill floated over Daryl where he stood. And his daddy looked to his side, grabbed a bottle. It was about three quarters full. He held it out towards Daryl, without really looking at him.

"C'mere, kid. Take one."

It wasn't a request.

He walked over, slow and steady. Wordless. Took the bottle, and stood there, watching his father stare absently into the floor.

"When you get married, you'll understand some things," his daddy said.

"Some women—you just don't ever get over 'em," he said, "They really get you by the balls—I don't think they're even really tryin' to do it. Some women. But sure as shit, they do."

Daddy interrupted himself then. Didn't look up, but somehow knew Daryl hadn't touched that beer since he'd taken it.

"Go on and drink that," his daddy said, finishing his own and letting the empty bottle roll across the floor.

"We're bondin' here."

Daryl had no idea how long that bottle had been sitting open up on top of that footlocker. But he didn't say no. It didn't even occur to him to try.

And the stuff was totally skunked—absolutely disgusting—but he somehow kept forcing it down until it was gone.

* * *

Daryl loaded a bolt and aimed into the darkness down the stacks—first one ways, then the other—unsure of what direction they'd come from. He wasn't sure how many dead there were, or where they were moving—wasn't sure if the two of them were about to get surrounded. And he'd run out of arrows this way, fast, if it came down to it.

So he rolled the bow back onto his shoulder. Crouched in front of Carol, helplessly.

"_Hey!"_ he whispered.

And there was loud crash in the row next to them. Something getting knocked over. And there was an arm reaching through the shelves, then, straining for Carol. Reaching towards the light of her flashlight. She still didn't look up.

And more shapes came and went behind whatever was attached to that arm. They made the dim light shake and falter as their shadows moved through the stacks.

He just kept clinging at her shoulder—he wasn't sure what else to do. Felt totally stuck in place, like that little carved sparrow he'd made that time. Frozen in one moment, its wings spread out to fly.

"Come _on_. There's _no more time!"_

She finally looked up at him then, a long moment. Her face looked strange in the glow from the flashlight. She nodded, once. Stuffed the pile she'd collected into her bag.

"Ok," she said, and he pulled her away with him.

The box stayed there on the floor, with the discarded, yellowed old newspapers scattered all around it on the linoleum tiles.

* * *

The sleet and hail and rain kept beating down on the roof and the window panes, and Daryl stood there, silently, in front of his daddy.

"Now what were we talkin' about?" Daddy asked. Didn't even look at Daryl. Just kept drinking that totally ruined, awful beer as if there was nothing wrong with it at all. As if he couldn't taste it. As if he was somewhere else entirely. As if some vital circuit was unplugged inside his head.

He nodded to himself.

"Some women. Right."

"They get deep in your bones. Never know which one it'll be, really. But once she's got you, you're done for."

"Now it ain't like that for _everyone_—just _some_ poor assholes. Your brother—he ain't gonna go that way. He ain't gonna get a woman under his skin."

"He _can't_, really—he's already got _you_ in there."

He shook his head. Gestured one handed, as if Daryl had protested.

"Always been that way for some fucking reason or other. Never really got it, myself."

"But it's _true_. And there ain't enough room in that poor bastard to _fit_ anything else."

"But _you_—you're different. When you go and get married, you'll see. Some women—they just work their way on inside you and they stay in there for the fucking rest of your fucking _life_."

"And when one of 'em finds you—she don't never _leave_. She's always right fucking _there_. All the time. _Forever_."

Then Daddy got quiet. Just kept staring like he'd been doing the whole time. Didn't even try to catch Daryl's eye. Just grabbed another bottle and started working on it. Long minutes passed, and Daryl began to wonder whether he might just be able to inch out of the room and get away.

He was just about to try it when his father started chuckling to himself. It didn't sound right. Almost like it was coming from somewhere else, far away.

"What am I sayin'?" he asked himself, taking a last swig of that spoiled beer, "You ain't never gettin' married."

He shook his head.

"No, not you."

And for the first time, Daddy looked up at him, straight in the eye.

"You'll be stayin' right where you are 'till you fucking _die_."

* * *

In the end, he had to use his gun.

They turned back to the nearest exit—the door with its broken lock, hanging open in the distance. And there were bodies in front of it, now. Moving shapes, lit from behind by the sunlight through that door.

"_Shit."_

He could hear Carol breathing at his side.

He took the .44 from his belt, and raised it. They were easy to aim for, silhouetted against the light outside—against the brick wall of the post office out beyond the alleyway.

As he punched a hole in that loose crowd, the report of the gun sounded strange against the linoleum and boxes and metal shelves.

Then he was dragging her out of the library as fast as he could—stepping their way through the bodies on the ground. More were coming, fast, behind them, in the dark. He reloaded as he moved. Looking to the side to do it, he noticed that Carol still had that bag of papers over her shoulder.

They stepped out into the sunlight, and she screamed.

Some of them were already in the alley. One of them was right on her, then—a woman in a flowered dress, blood caked through her long hair. It grabbed at Carol's shoulders, tugging her forward.

Daryl rammed into it with his full weight—knocked it backwards, and it went sprawling against the wall. Then he hit it with the handle of his gun. Over and over, splattering the black blood against the brick.

And he spun around, shot the others methodically. They fell.

When he turned to look for her, he saw Carol had pressed herself against the door. And the walkers were pushing against it from inside—trying to force their way through—and she braced against the impact from outside.

He threw himself against the door with her, then—dug in with his back, and started reloading his weapon yet again.

"We gotta make a run for it," he said, "But they'll be on our heels the moment we let the door go."

And so he finished loading, counted to three, and they bolted.

As they moved into the open air in the town center, they could see immediately that the bike was surrounded. It was parked way on the other side of the building, surrounded by walkers—called by the gunshots from who knows where. It was completely out of reach.

He could see some of them creeping out from the storefronts where they'd been hiding. Across the town green, and out of the alleyways. Shapes lurched out of the shadows, and towards the two of them.

He spun in a circle, looking for a clear avenue. Wondered where more were hiding, in places that he couldn't see.

And so they couldn't run any further—not on foot.

"Need to hole up a while," he said, "Somewhere we can keep 'em out."

The walkers were almost on them, then. And the two of them started backing into the empty space of the green, both scanning for somewhere to run.

"_There,"_ Carol said, pointing into the distance—away from the press of dead.

She meant the church. The old brick church—the one where his mama had been a member, once. The one Merle would break into some nights when he was a teenager. He'd bring girls up in the bell tower.

You could see pretty far from up there, Merle said.

* * *

In the Dixon household, sometimes things happened so fast that you had no way to prepare for them. You were at the mercy of luck, growing up on that dead end road. You might get the shit kicked out of you, or you might be fine for weeks on end. And Daryl never knew what would happen next.

It was the not knowing that kept him up at night, as a kid. It was really worst part of the whole thing—uncertainty on every side. Nowhere was safe. Nothing was predictable. Not ever.

So when the damned walkers came—when the dead started rising up and feeding on the living— everyone else was shocked to their bones—filled to overflowing with fear and horror and despair. But _Daryl_ got accustomed to the idea pretty damned quickly. He was simply used to this sort of thing. It was just more of the same old shit in a new, weirdass wrapper.

He'd stared death in the face ever since he was a child, and he'd long since learned not to blink.

And one spring afternoon, when Daryl was eight years old, he walked in the front door after school. He had his backpack slung over one shoulder.

Daddy sat on the couch, hovered over the worn, old coffee table. He was high as a kite, and cleaning his guns.

When he looked up, Daryl could see the glassy look in his eyes. The vacant look, like no one was home inside his head. Their eyes locked, and he honed in on Daryl completely. He was caught dead center in that hollow gaze. And so he started to feel the familiar, frozen panic working through him—straight up his back to where it lodged in his throat.

Daryl's backpack slid off his shoulder and slumped down onto the ground.

Daddy had that .38 Special in his hands. Spun the cylinder in his fingers.

And then he raised it, aimed, and fired straight at him.

It took a moment for Daryl to realize he hadn't been hit. The chamber was empty. And his father spun the cylinder again.

Next time, it might _not_ be empty. He had no idea if any of the chambers were loaded, or if his father knew whether or not they were.

And Merle happened to step out of his room at that moment. He was a gangly and awkward fourteen-year-old kid—one who'd already spent some time in juvie. He saw the gun in their daddy's hand. Seemed to understand immediately what was going on. Stood there, still and silent, in his doorway—at their daddy's back.

And before his daddy could pull the trigger a second time, Merle jumped right at him. Tugged him out of his seat as best he could.

Merle was no real match for their daddy—but he didn't seem to care. As Daddy grabbed at him, Merle went and bit him hard, straight on the arm. Daddy cried out. Threw him backwards and sent him sprawling on the floor. Then he struck Merle over the head with that revolver. Once. Twice. After the third time, Merle was spitting out blood onto the floor, gasping for air.

And Daddy just walked away. Dropped the gun. Drifted up the stairs to that bedroom, and closed the door.

Daryl went to his brother.

* * *

The side door was unlocked. It let in directly to the church sanctuary. And as they ran into the shaded space with its white walls and stained glass windows, they saw that there were pews scattered everywhere. Some had been blocking the door at one point.

But they'd been forced to the sides, and the sanctuary was full of dead.

The dead on the street started ramming themselves against the door at their backs, and the front door was completely blocked by stacked pews and other furniture. And the side door at the far wall was barricaded in the same way.

Some of the parishioners had holed up in here, together. Tried to make some kind of last stand. Clearly, it hadn't gone so well.

Daryl pulled Carol towards the only other door—the only one that wasn't blocked. The one that led to the bell tower.

And as he forced their way through—skirting the side of the sanctuary, firing at anything that got close, one of the ones who came for him looked vaguely familiar. It was so coated with blood it was hard to figure out what it would have looked like when it was alive. But as Daryl grabbed it by the arms and threw it headfirst into the corner of a stray pew, he was able to conjure up the face in his mind.

Pastor Steve. You'd see him around town, sometimes.

Steve started flailing. Tried to push his way out of the pew, then—knocked a hymnal onto the floor.

So Daryl grabbed the back of Steve's neck and forced his head down into the edge of the pew, again.

There was a crunch, and he stopped trying to get up.

* * *

That afternoon, all those years ago, it was clear pretty soon that their daddy had given Merle a concussion. At least it was clear to _Merle_, who told Daryl so. And then Merle spent the whole night puking his guts out. There wasn't much Daryl could really do about it, but he sat there next to him the entire time—perched on the edge of the bathtub. Watched his brother heaving out everything inside him over the toilet.

And the whole time, the sound of Merle's gagging merged with the sound of Daddy's footfalls in that room upstairs. He was pacing along the creaking, old floorboards above their heads.

Long hours passed away. Sometime in the middle of the night, Merle slumped over against the wall, exhausted. The blood on his face had dried up. He looked dazed, far away.

Daryl came up to him, then, shook his arm pretty hard. Didn't want him to go unconscious.

Merle came to himself a little, then, and smiled a little half-smile at him.

"It's you and me, baby brother," he murmured, softly—almost to himself.

"You and me."

And Daryl always wondered if Merle had saved his life, that day.

* * *

He threw the door to the bell tower shut against the arms reaching in for them.

"_Run!"_ he shouted, pushing at the door—trying to force it closed. The hands strained through—pulled at his clothes. One gripped at the breast pocket on his flannel shirt, and tore it away.

He looked over his shoulder and saw her, there, on the stairway. She looked back. Didn't run. Just watched him.

And he was furious with her, then—full of rage. Frustrated to his core, and he wanted to just pluck her out of the whole damned building, then, and leave her somewhere safe.

"_Run! Fucking run, already!"_

Looking at her, then, standing there, not listening to him tell her to run. It made him feel like he would do anything—_anything_—to see her through this alright.

Finally, she turned, and disappeared up the stairwell.

And he remembered what his daddy said, all those years ago. His voice floated up in his head, as clear as if he were standing next to him, whispering in his ear.

_Some women—they just work their way on inside you and they stay in there for the fucking rest of your fucking life._

* * *

Finally, he dropped the trap door to the belfry, gasping for air. Carol was leaning against the bricks on the far wall, eyes closed, catching her breath.

He rushed to her side. Looked her over for any sign she'd been hurt.

"You ok?"

She opened her eyes. Nodded.

"Yeah," she said, "I'm ok."

And she made to stand, and he helped her up. They looked out over the stone belfry, and into the open air beyond it. The town green spanned out below them. There were walkers _everywhere_, now. The bike looked like a toy, small and far away, down below.

"We're totally surrounded," she said. Didn't turn to look at him, just stared out into the distance, arms propped up on the brick window ledge.

"Yeah," he said.

"And we didn't tell anyone where we were going."

"Yeah."

The cool wind blew through the arches, and his heart started to slow in his chest. He caught his breath.

And she turned to him, then. Spoke softly. She always spoke so softly—and her voice was just like that cool air floating over him.

"Are we going to die up here?"

There was no point in prettying things up for her.

"Maybe."

She sighed, looked at him expressively.

"I'm _sorry_."

She knew she'd gotten him into this, and there wasn't much else to say.

Somehow, whatever anger he'd been feeling completely evaporated, then. Whatever was left of it was gone in an instant. And he shrugged.

"Don't really matter," he said.

"Gotta die sometime."

She just looked at him. And he could see the trepidation in her face. Whatever had been possessing her to do the crazy shit she'd been doing all morning had vanished.

So he stepped forward. Moved in close. Looked at her firmly, and tried to buck her up.

"But we're gonna try our fucking damndest, right?"

She didn't say anything—seemed like she was looking out over his shoulder at the crowds of dead on the green below. So he moved a little closer. Got right in her face.

"You hear me, Carol?"

She looked into his eyes, and nodded.

"It's you and me now, ok?"

And then he clapped her on the arm, hard, as if she was a man—as if she was Rick or Merle or something.

"You and me."

She nodded again, wordless. Moved away. Drifted to the other side of the belfry, looking out over the church roof and the alleys below—clogged with a groaning mass of the dead.

And he looked up, then, at the wooden trusses surrounding the old, bronze bell. Something was carved up there on one of them—gouged into the beam, probably with a pocket knife. It looked really old—the letters were chipped and weathered. He squinted hard, reading what it said.

_M.D. Forever_

And next to it, a piece of chewing gum was stuck there on the wood. And Daryl could still see the teeth marks in it, way up above, where it was mashed up against the heavy, white paint.


	7. This is Not a Test

_Canada, the land of pies and inspiration, has been very good to me. I have another chapter for you. Hopefully the land of back-home-and-hard-at-work will be equally kind. For now, enjoy!_

_Note: A point of clarification may be necessary in terms of context, here. The counties I refer to in the radio announcement lie directly north of Fulton county, where Atlanta is situated. The Georgia governor I refer to is Governor Sonny Perdue, who left office early in 2011. He would have been in control of the National Guard in the state at the time of the outbreak-and because the show is behind us in the timeline, at this point, the action in the story's "present" falls in very late 2010 and very early 2011. If there is any confusion, I hope this clears it up!_

* * *

_This is Not a Test:_

In Daryl's dream, the summer sun stabbed at him, sharp and hot. It pierced straight through the leaves above his head—made him sweat so heavy that he felt like he was covered in blood.

He was looking for the girl, all over again. The little girl. Sophia.

The cicadas called out through the humid air. That air was so thick and dense that when he breathed it in, it cleaved to the insides of his lungs—coating them with a wet, dripping heat.

And in the dream, he stepped out of the treeline, and he saw the tall grass, and a ramshackle country house beyond it. The same one he'd searched through in the summer. The one with the cupboard, full of blankets and pillows, where someone little had slept.

That house had been abandoned long before the world went to shit. The siding was falling apart. The windows were cracked and broken. The dirt and wet were getting in.

And Sophia. _This_ time, she might be inside there. If _he_ were a little kid, it would seem like a good place to hide.

In the dream, that house looked exactly like it did when he'd been there before. The same in every detail—down to the rust staining the gutters and dripping down over the drainpipes.

But when he opened the door, and cautiously stepped inside, it wasn't the same anymore.

He was at the dead-end road where he grew up. It was his daddy's house.

_Every house is Daddy's house._

He shook it off. Scanned the empty living room. Turned into the kitchen.

_She's here. She's somewhere inside—right here. She's _always_ been _right here_._

The knowledge pierced right through him—grabbed him hard and wouldn't let him go. He was _sure_ Sophia was in here, somewhere.

And he moved into the kitchen, and saw the cupboard. His daddy's house never had a cupboard like that, before. But it made sense that it was there, because _Sophia_ was in there.

So he threw the cupboard open.

And in the instant before he woke, he saw her face. He saw those big, blue eyes looking out at him.

* * *

Daryl snapped awake. And he found himself somewhere dark and cold. He was shaken, and had trouble focusing. His mind was a sleepy fog.

And then a soft voice floated over him.

"You were dreaming."

He couldn't really place where he was, at first, or where the voice had come from. But the sound was light, and feminine, and gentle. His first coherent thought was that he wanted to hear it again.

He shook the sleep off, and looked up. It was Carol, sitting propped up against the brick wall across from him. And he remembered.

It was winter, now. He was trapped in the bell tower, and Sophia was dead.

He shifted in place. Stretched his back, and heard it crack and complain against sitting still so long. Now that he was awake, he could hear the sounds of the dead, below in the green. They were wandering aimlessly through the streets, and the alleyways. Around the tired storefronts and the old trees.

He could hear their groans—the throttled, scraping snarls. The sound was quiet at this distance, but constantly, ever-presently _there_.

"You ain't sleepin'?"

She shrugged. Smiled at him, slightly.

"Can't."

Then she burrowed into herself—arms wrapped close around her body—warding off the night chill. Her breath misted through the cold air. It was _freezing_. No wonder she couldn't sleep.

And so he started to take off his jacket, then, so he could hand it to her.

"No, Daryl," she said, shaking her head. She stood, and wandered towards the far wall. Looked out into the distance. She folded her hands, resting them against the brick and leaning out into the open air beyond the tower.

"No, you keep that."

She kept looking out into the dark—down at the walkers moaning on the green below.

"Your coat can't make those _sounds_ go away."

* * *

Carol couldn't sleep in that tower. Not with the uncertainty crowding in on her from all sides—pressing in close, like the cold. Not with the sounds of the dead, floating up from below. Their moans reminded her how very trapped they were.

Morning was just starting to color the sky. The shadows of the walkers below drew out over the dead grass and old asphalt—long and strange in the low light. Those silhouettes formed the shapes of people, but warped—twisted. It was hard to believe that what cast them had ever been human at all.

She couldn't sleep, but Daryl slept. He'd long since drifted off, again, after waking from his dream. He'd sat up with her for a long while, but now he was out cold, his head leaned against his pack. She could see the outline of his shoulders against the darkness, half lost in the shadow of the big bell, dangling up above them.

There was no way she could do that—just lie down on the cold, stone floor and tune it all out. So she waited, and watched. Sipped a little from the water bottle Daryl had brought with him, in his bag. Tried to save as much as possible for later. He wouldn't want to, but she resolved that she'd make Daryl drink some of it when he woke up again.

She was pretty clear how it would go. He'd want to give it all to her, and then they'd squabble over it. He'd probably yell at her a bit, but she'd get her way in the end. And he'd be annoyed about that, and get really quiet. And then, after a while, he'd grumble and complain at her a good bit about something else—whatever first came to mind.

It was a pretty stupid way to try to be considerate, but it was what he had to offer.

But he wasn't awake, yet. She'd wait to fight with him until later. In the meantime, there wasn't much to do. So she got out the flashlight, opened that bag of newspapers, pulled out the earliest, and started to read.

* * *

The car radio kept blaring out at Carol and Sophia. It was sounding an awful, mechanical alarm over and over and over. The emergency broadcast system. And Carol drove through the familiar, tree-lined streets, and everything seemed strange. Surreal.

Nothing was familiar anymore. Not really.

_This is not a test. This is not a test. There is mandatory evacuation in e__ffect for Pickens, Dawson, Forsyth, Cherokee, and Cobb counties_**_. _**_National Guard units have been mobilized in these areas and are working to clear and stabilize evacuation routes._

And Carol kept scanning the street for any sign of the infected—the _things_ that the radio kept warning them about. No one could really decide what to call them, yet. But she'd seen a few already, in the yards. At the edge of the road. And they were… she didn't have _words_ for what they were.

They were like nothing she'd seen, or even _thought_ about, in her entire life.

Carol's hands clung tight against the steering wheel.

_Proceed to the nearest emergency rendezvous point, from which you will be transported from the effected zones to designated FEMA shelters._

She'd gathered Sophia up in the car, and headed to Ed's mother's house. He'd taken the old jeep Cherokee. Was using it to gather together all the things he'd saved—the things they needed to live, all on their own. And then he would meet them here, and the four of them were going to do their best to make a run for it. Find one of those emergency shelters, or head out into the woods with the supplies, if it came to it.

He'd squirreled enough away over the years to keep them going a good, long while. She wasn't sure what he'd been afraid of that whole time—but it certainly wasn't _this_.

_Tune to AM 550 for a listing of rendezvous points for evacuation._

Ed seemed pretty confident that he knew what to do. Carol, though—_she_ wasn't so sure. She never had the sort of faith in Ed that he'd always had in himself.

_Do not travel on foot. Do not confront the infected. Do not attempt rescue. Proceed directly to established emergency rendezvous points._

Ed gave her some orders, before heading off to make those preparations—told her what he wanted her to do. And she was going to do exactly what he told her. Head to the edge of town with Sophia, and hole up with his mother. Eileen.

Carol could get behind _that_ part of his plan, at least. Eileen was Sophia's grandmother, after all—her only surviving grandparent. Carol would never have dreamed of leaving her behind.

_As of this morning, Governor Perdue has declared martial law. _ _Follow the directions of all National Guard units. This is not a test._

And then the emergency broadcast system went back to blaring those mechanical alarms at them, over and over again.

And it was then she saw the sweet little one-bedroom cottage that Ed's mother had moved into when his father died. It came into view over a curve in the road. The white picket fence rose up in front of her, with the morning glories all over it, lined on both sides with neatly tended garden flowers. There was a birdhouse on the maple tree out front.

Ed's mother was happy in that pretty little house. Widowhood seemed to agree with her.

Carol pulled into the neat little driveway. Parked there, and turned to Sophia. She was curled up in the passenger seat, clinging at her doll. Eileen made her that doll for her third birthday.

It was Sophia's favorite, but she'd started playing with it less and less over the last year or so. And Carol had noticed it, of course. She noticed everything about her daughter. And she thought, with a twinge of wistfulness, that it was the first sign that Sophia's girlhood days were numbered.

The alarms from the radio stopped, and it started to speak again.

_This is not a test. This is not a test._

Carol unlatched her seatbelt, and took Sophia's arm.

"I've got to check things out. Honey, you stay here, ok?"

Sophia nodded. Just kept clinging to that doll. Hadn't let go of it since Carol told her they couldn't stay at home anymore—that they needed to run. And with that emergency signal blaring through their car radio, Sophia held onto it as tightly as she did when she was a toddler.

"Don't you go outside for _anything_. If you see anything that's…"

Carol trailed off. Didn't know how to finish the sentence.

_If you see anything that's dangerous. If you see anything that's infected._

_If you see anything that's dead._

Carol shook it off. Rephrased.

"—if you see _anything_, you just _hide_. Don't let it see you—stay down low. You just hide in the car and wait for me."

Sophia kept staring at her with those gorgeous blue eyes. Those eyes. His weren't quite so blue, but she got them from Ed.

"Mom…" she murmured.

Carol pulled her close, then. Kissed the top of her head.

"Stay put. I'll be right back."

And she got out of the car and headed for the cottage door.

* * *

Carol scanned headlines for hours. Searched through the police blotter restlessly. Considering how hard it was to get the papers—how hard she'd had to fight for them—she figured they _had_ to be important. She was convinced the answer would be in one of them somewhere.

But if it was, she had trouble finding it. She thought it would be obvious, printed there in black and white, staring out at her. Some report about what happened to Rosalie. Some discussion. But there was nothing there at all. Nothing mentioned her. Not _once_.

There was no sign she'd ever gone missing. And Carol wondered, then, if anyone had _reported_ her missing.

They must have just let her slip away.

Edgar was surprisingly scantly represented, in those papers, as well. Rosalie's diaries made it abundantly clear that he was into some pretty shady things. And yet he was barely mentioned. There was one drunk and disorderly call, outside a bar, with no arrests.

There were no assaults. No firearms violations or references to drug possession. No domestic disturbance calls. _Nothing_.

There were some other Dixons listed in some of the reports. Cousins, maybe. She didn't recognize their first names.

She sighed. Dropped the paper she'd been reading onto the stone floor. Turned off the flashlight, and tucked it into her bag. She'd been absorbed, and hadn't realized it, but the day had long since gotten light enough to read without the thing.

Looking around, she guessed it must be mid-morning, by now. Daryl was still asleep. He was breathing, steadily, at her back.

A flock of pigeons had settled on the wooden trusses that held up the bronze bell. They were cooing to each other and fluttering around up there.

And she was watching them, roosting there, when she heard it. The noise cut through the stillness—through the shuffling movements of the dead. Their hollow groans.

A car passing by. Passing through one of the nearby side streets.

And she leaned out of the tower, staring hard into the distance. And she caught a glimpse, then—a flash of a familiar paint color. She saw it through a gap in the buildings.

_That's Rick's car. _

She was sure of it. The two of them had been missing for over a day, now. And the others—of course they'd gone out looking for them.

But Rick was getting further away by the instant. He couldn't see them. And she wasn't sure if he'd notice the bike, down there, surrounded by the dead.

A hand floated up to her mouth. She couldn't just let Rick go by without _seeing_ them. There had to be a way. She paced the belfry, cold with apprehension.

But then it struck her. It was obvious.

She jumped forward—before any more time could slip by—and started tugging on the rope hanging off that big, bronze bell.

In the tower, the sound was deafeningly loud. It bounced off the stone and rang out all around them. The pigeons immediately took off together. Flew away in a flurry of feathers and wings. They scattered into the sky, and away. Daryl started awake—leapt up, and looked to her there, pulling on that cord as hard as she could—ringing the bell over and over and over again.

* * *

Carol knocked on the side door. The one that opened into the cottage kitchen. She waited. There was no answer. So she knocked again. Nothing.

She started getting nervous. Looked behind her. There was nothing but Sophia—sitting in the car, eyes locked on Carol.

She turned back to the door. There was a decorative pull hanging off the brass knocker. White linen cross stitch, with a handmade, tatted lace border.

_God Bless This House_, it read.

So she tried the knob, and the door swung open in front of her. The smell of potpourri rushed out over her face. Spices and cloves and rose hips. Eileen kept little, hand-dried piles of the stuff in decorative porcelain dishes all around her house. And that meant that Carol had her work cut out for her, when Sophia was very little, in keeping her from trying to eat the stuff.

She stepped into the kitchen.

Everything was neat, and in order. The digital oven clock was still working. 9:36. It was the last time Carol would see something like that for a long time. She didn't know it then, but the electricity would cut out in a few hours.

"Eileen?"

She stepped around the kitchen island, and hit something with her foot. Looked down. There were pieces of shattered glass, there. She crouched. Picked a shard up in her hand. Milk glass, with one of those lacey, molded borders.

The decorative plate rack—the one by the far side of the room. It had been knocked to the floor.

The cotton curtains with the butterfly patterns started flowing in a breeze—and Carol turned, and saw that the back door was hanging open. And she drifted to it—like one of those nightmares where you know something is about to happen—even know what it _is_ that's about to happen—but you're powerless to stop yourself. You just have to play it out.

So she stood there, in the door, and looked out across the vegetable garden and the neat rows of marigolds that surrounded it.

And Ed's mother was out there, in her garden, in a torn housedress.

She looked up at Carol. Started growling deep in her throat, and lurched towards where she stood.

* * *

Rick heard her ringing the bell. And it was clear very quickly that he understood what they were trying to tell him. They saw the car double back almost immediately.

"Yeah," Daryl said, leaning out of the belfry, looking where she pointed.

"That's Rick's car, alright."

He picked up the crossbow. Gathered his things. Looked to her. Smiled that awkward, crooked smile he had.

"Cavalry's comin'," he said.

* * *

Carol ran straight through the kitchen, out the side door, and into the driveway. She reached the car. Threw open the driver's side door, and slammed it shut.

Then she sat there, staring at her hands, resting on the steering wheel.

"Mom?"

Sophia's hand was on her shoulder. She shook her a little.

"Mom?"

Carol turned to her, then. Tried to think of something to say. How to explain what she'd just seen.

But she didn't have time. Sophia's eyes darted up—to something behind Carol—outside the car. And then she screamed.

"_MOM!"_

Carol turned just in time to see the bloody hands slam down against the window beside her.

* * *

It took slow, long hours to get them out of that tower.

First, they heard the car horn, in the distance, echoing out over the green. Saw the walkers' heads turn towards it. Rick was drawing them away. Kept ahead of them, and just guided them along.

The car was out of sight, soon. Then Carol stopped hearing the horn. She just kept looking out into the distance, then, straining for any sight of that car in the distance.

"He'll be back," Daryl said. Calm and steady. He had no doubts about it.

And he _did_ come back. Again and again, leading those walkers away to who knows where. Must have doubled around, somehow, and left those crowds of dead behind. Then he came back to gather another round of the stragglers.

Some two hours later, the green was empty, again.

"He won't try to just walk in here, will he?" Carol asked, nervously.

"He'll realize they're all over inside the church, right?"

"He'll get it," Daryl said, "He knows we sure as hell wouldn't be up _here_ if we could be anywhere else."

When the car came back, it stopped short, in an alley. And then she saw Rick and Glenn slipping out into the green.

Then Carl followed behind them, gun in hand.

He was in the search party. He was going to help fight them off.

Carol looked down at him, there, and couldn't breathe.

* * *

The three of them there on the ground ended up shooting out one of the stained glass windows. Opened a curtain of fire on what poured out at them, there.

And Carol—she watched Daryl make his move. He jumped down into the stairwell from the belfry's trap door. She leapt down after him, and he caught her, lightly—put a finger to his lips. Quiet.

They could hear the gunfire in the distance—muffled and strange through the brick walls.

And she stayed behind Daryl as they made their way down those winding stairs—back down from the bell tower. There was a crowd of dead in the stairs—the ones who had chased them on their way up. They were packed tight so it was hard for them to move. He drew his knife, in those close quarters, and stabbed the first he could reach. Tugged the blade out from its eye and kicked it down the stairway. It knocked the others down as it fell. So he pulled his gun, then, and shot them where they sprawled over the stairs—one by one as they tried to stand.

And when Daryl threw open the door to the sanctuary, it was immediately obvious how much emptier the room was, now. The walkers had all been heading towards that broken window, and the gunfire outside.

Some heads turned towards the two of them, and moved their way—awkwardly pushing over the pews and stepping around the fallen bodies sprawled out on the floor. Daryl pushed Carol behind him, and shot out another of the windows—the one on the other side of the barricaded front door.

And that's how they got out. He pulled her through that window, and she could hear the glass cracking under her boots. Saw the colored light,filered through the remnants of glass in that window. That light cast colors on her hands as she carefully made her way out into the sunlight.

* * *

Sophia's grandmother was a foot away, banging on the glass. Carol had never seen one of the infected so close. Her _eyes_… good God. There was nothing there that had ever been human at all.

Eileen beat on the window. Pressed her face up against it. Her teeth were bared, and she was drooling.

Sophia grabbed at her mother's arm, again.

"What do we _do?"_

Carol pulled her close, and they clung to each other.

"I—I don't _know_," Carol said.

She pulled Sophia against her chest. Tried to shield her eyes from seeing the thing outside. Thought and thought.

There were rendezvous points. FEMA shelters.

Screw Ed's plan. That was the way to go, now.

So she shook her head.

"Sophia, we've got to leave."

Sophia looked at her, shocked.

"… without _Dad_?"

And the thing that used to be Sophia's grandmother started throwing her full weight into the glass, then—shoulder first, and snarling.

Inside the car, Carol and Sophia screamed.

Carol clung at her daughter.

"She's going to break the glass," she whispered, helplessly.

"But Sophia—Sophia—there are places we can _go_. Places they'll take care of us."

She pulled Sophia forward—hands in her hair. Pulled her forehead against her own.

"Honey, we've _got_ to drive away. We've got to go _now."_

And Sophia started tugging on her arms, again. Pulling on her clothes—as if she could somehow make her mother stay put by doing it.

"Mom…no…"

Eileen had climbed up on to the hood of the car, then. Snapped off a windshield wiper with one of her feet as she did it. And then she started beating the glass with her fists.

Sophia sounded like she was about to cry.

"_Dad_. He'll be here any _minute_. _Please_. We can't leave _without_ him."

And so while Sophia clung to Carol, she also clung to Ed—to some idea of him that she had in her mind. She wouldn't let him go.

But Ed was hardly a human being to Carol, now, so she'd let the idea of him go in an instant.

Sophia started to sob, then. It poured out of her.

"Mom… Mom… we _need_ to wait for Dad."

"Sophia…"

She trailed off. Thought of what to say next.

_He doesn't deserve your love._

She couldn't say that to her daughter. And she just looked at her with those big eyes, pleading.

"_Daddy_…"

So Carol couldn't drive away. Couldn't rip Sophia away like that, when she was begging for her not to.

So there was only one other option.

Carol breathed in hard. Tried to steel herself up.

"Close your eyes," she said, and turned the key in the ignition. The emergency broadcast system came to life, blaring that repetitive alarm at them.

And she had no idea what she drew on that made her do it, but she _did_ it. She threw the car forward. Tossed Eileen off the hood. And then she pulled the car right over her. Backed it up, and did it again. Again and again, until Carol was sure she'd stop coming at them.

Then she did it a few more times.

_This is not a test. This is not a test_.

The jolts shocked through Carol's body as the tires rolled over Ed's mother. She could hear Sophia beside her, breathing hard. And the radio kept talking at them as she switched gears.

_Do not confront the infected. Do not attempt rescue. Proceed directly to established emergency rendevous areas._

When it was over, they waited for Ed to come. And come he did. Sophia rushed out and clung at his side, when he got out of the jeep. And he let her, without a word. He didn't return her embrace, but he didn't push her away.

He was still a human being, to Sophia. But Carol had a sinking feeling about that. It was a matter of time before something happened. Before he ruined that illusion, and worse.

And looking at him, with Sophia wrapped around his side, he was as alien to Carol as the thing she'd just killed. The one that used to be Sophia's grandmother.

But still… the _look_ on his face when he saw his mother… the way he stared at her sprawled out there, crushed and mashed up on the asphalt. It made Carol's stomach twist. Made it hard to breathe.

That look reminded Carol that he _had_ been a human being to her, once.

Someone she'd loved.

* * *

The two of them were crouched in among the laurel bushes outside the church. Daryl pulled on her arm.

"Go to Rick," he said, "I'll get the bike."

And he turned away, then, and was gone. Disappeared out into the open air.

She followed him out into the green. And immediately, she saw Rick and Glenn and Carl were backing up towards her, still firing on the dead heading out from the inside. When she scanned the distance, she saw more coming—creeping out of the alleys. Out of the library, called by the gunfire. They had to get out of here soon.

A moment later, she was with the three of them. Daryl was in the distance, making for the bike. She stood behind Carl, and touched his shoulder. He looked up—under the brim of that deputy's hat—and nodded. Smiled a small, close-lipped smile.

"Get to the car," Rick said—in that clear, commanding way he had that made everyone do what he ordered.

They'd parked in an alley—but it was close to overrun already. The dead were creeping out towards the car. They couldn't back the thing out where it came from. They'd have to pull through the green again to get away.

Rick and Glenn headed to the front—threw open the doors, and Carol guided Carl towards the back.

Something grabbed at his ankle. Something from under the car. Tugged hard. Carl fell, and his handgun flew across the pavement. Hit Carol against the ankle, and bounced away.

She heard his father shouting. Rick had seen it happen.

"_CARL!"_

Carl kicked at the thing that grabbed him, scrabbling to get free. It scratched at his ankles and tried to bite him.

And Carol screamed. The front doors flew open again. Glenn and Rick were just a few feet away. But they didn't have a clear shot. There was no time.

And Carol looked out, past the alley—caught sight of Daryl running towards them. But he was all the way across the grass. There was nothing he could do, either.

The gun. It was right there.

She grabbed it, awkwardly, without thinking. Aimed at the thing clawing at Carl, and fired.

The force threw her back on her feet, and she almost fell over. She'd never fired a gun before. Hadn't prepared herself for the recoil. Didn't think, at first, to even check that she'd hit the walker square on.

But she had. Looking at it there made her mind go numb, and she just acted. Turned—turned towards the rest of the dead, coming up through the alley. Fired into them. Stopped them from closing. At that range, it was easy to do.

And then Carl was up, and the car was running, and they all were inside and driving away.

And Carol pressed against the seat, heart racing. Closed her eyes a moment—just focused on the the movement of the car and let her breath slow in her chest. A few seconds passed, but it seemed like forever.

"Carol?"

It was Carl, sitting next to her. She opened her eyes. He was leaning over in his seat.

"Can I have my gun back?"

She handed it to him, numbly.

And then she turned to look outside—pressed herself against the car window. Against the glass, and stared into the green. Saw that Daryl making his way back over to the bike, swift and silent. As they pulled away, she saw him start the thing and start moving to catch up with them. And then he followed the car all the way back to the painted lady.

She watched him, trailing after them, the whole way home.

* * *

Back at the painted lady, that evening, Daryl tried to keep watch with Rick. Came up to the tower with some hot coffee to share, like they'd been doing. But Rick just slapped him on the shoulder, said he'd had to have had enough of towers for a while, and told him to get some rest.

And Daryl was really too tired to say no, and headed on downstairs.

But as he opened the door to his room, he paused. He could hear something from the room next door. And without thinking about it, he walked over and opened Carol's door. Didn't knock.

She looked up from her bed. She was curled up on top of the bedspread, in the light of a single candle, crying.

"Carol," he said. He didn't know what else to say.

She wiped at her eyes with the back of one hand, even though she had a tissue clutched in the other. It was like she forgot it was there.

He stood in her doorway, and watched her. She sat up. Tried to smile at him.

"It's been quite a day," she said. And he stepped forward, then, awkwardly—unsure what to do.

"You did real good," he said.

"Yeah," she said, quietly. Her tone was flat. Like what he was saying didn't really register for her.

It was then he noticed that she had one of the journals there with her—the last journal. She looked down at the book, lying there at her side. She'd been reading it. Reading it, and crying.

"What did I _do_ to her, Daryl?"

He squinted at her. Didn't understand what she was talking about. And she just kept talking.

"What did I let her _see_? What did I let her _know_ about?"

"Carol—I don't—"

She cut him off.

"And that's all she _had_. That was her whole, entire _life_."

He was silent. Nervous. Coldly afraid he would say the wrong thing, since he had no idea what was going on.

"Good _God_, Daryl… what I've _done_... why would it be her and not me?"

Sophia. She was talking about Sophia.

The journals made her think about Sophia. Made her cry.

God.

"Carol," he said. She didn't look up. Just kept crying, softly, and looking down at the book. So he stepped closer, spoke a little louder. More firmly.

"_Carol_."

He dropped to his knees by her bed. Looked up at her.

"You didn't do _nothin'_, Carol."

She dropped the tissue in her hand, and never looked at him.

"I know," she said.

"That's the whole _point_."


	8. Black Eyed Susan

_And another chapter for you fine folks. And I've got a good chunk of the next ready, so hopefully I will update soon. We're getting very close to the halfway point in this story—it should be twenty chapters long, and true novel length, word-count wise. For me, this is exciting because I have all sorts of room to play, here. _

_As for this chapter, specifically, I want to give fair warning—there are some not-very-graphic references to the existence of sex in this chapter. If this is likely to offend you, please breathe deeply and close the window now. Otherwise: enjoy!_

* * *

_Black-Eyed Susan:_

Through the whole ordeal in the belfry, Carol hadn't slept at all. But even so, she found herself restless the first night back in the painted lady.

Daryl walked in and saw her crying, and sat with her for a good while. And he was awkward and quiet—afraid of her tears in a way he was never afraid of the walkers. And eventually, she managed to convince him to go to bed and leave her again. And later on, when Carol's candle burned down, she stared into the ceiling until she drifted off into a light doze. But even then, the journals were still in the forefront of her mind.

She was still thinking of Rosalie, and her children. In that half-sleep, Carol could almost _see_ Rose standing in the tall grass, watching Merle sobbing, way back when he was just a boy. Before he threw those rocks at her, and drove her away. Rosalie never found out what made him cry, that day.

She never asked.

She was frozen in place. Never moved an inch—never acted. She worried, and cared, and thought, and did _nothing_.

To Carol, Rose was like a ghost, haunting the corners of her own story.

And everything Carol had seen in those journals blended together for her—bleeding through into that restless sleep. Daryl playing with those dogs. Merle's tears. Scout's beaten, bloody body, lying out in the hollow.

Edgar's face, looking out at her, drawn in pencil.

And she remembered Sophia, some ten years back when she was just barely a toddler. She came up and pulled on Carol's sleeve, one afternoon. She was sitting at her vanity table, staring into the mirror, trying to figure out a way to hide her bruises. And Sophia wanted to help.

And Carol hugged her, told her to go play, and pretended that nothing was wrong.

* * *

And the next morning, Carol woke up early, and there was nothing to do in the dark but find a flashlight, and start reading again.

That last journal told her many stories. The first had been about Merle—the mystery of what happened to Scout, and why. But the _next_ story was entirely different—it was about Rose, herself. About a growing tension between her and her husband.

It all started with the longest entry in the journals by far. In that entry, Rosalie was so angry it was like she couldn't stop writing—pouring it out in the only place it was safe for her to say anything.

It was the beginning of a battle between Rose and Edgar—simmering just beneath the surface. Slow building and subtle, so that she could barely trace the thread.

It was a battle for their children.

* * *

_6/4/80_

_Got back from Sarah's today—not even early. A little late, actually. And I saw this strange little MG parked in the driveway. A real old one. One of the doors was a different color from the body. _

_And I knew then that he still had some bar girl at the house, even though he had plenty of time to get rid of her. He brought another one home, with Daryl there and everything. And keeping Daryl at home was his idea. Only let me take Merle to Sarah's, and I didn't like it one bit, but he absolutely insisted on it—and the look on his face told me there was no stopping him._

_I almost scrapped the whole trip right then, but that look on his face told me that wasn't much of an option, either._

_So Daryl was there with that woman. _Daryl_. And that didn't matter to Edgar. No, he didn't care._

_And that woman. I walk in with Merle, and she's just sitting right on the sofa, Edgar nowhere to be seen. And that woman sees us come in and just looks up once, and shrugs it off like it's nothing. Sat there smoking on my couch with her blouse half buttoned, watching Daryl rolling the trucks on the floor._

_And nobody said nothing, really. Merle blew right by me—went straight out the back door the second he had a free path. That woman dug around for her shoes—had some trouble finding them, since my living room was such a mess you couldn't believe it. They were a pair of those cowboy boots with the painted butterflies on the front._

_Then she left with those boots in her hand—over her shoulder by the tabs. Didn't put them on until she got into that beat-up little sports car and drove on out of here._

_And then Edgar came downstairs, and he saw me standing there in the living room with Daryl at my feet. _

_And he came right at me, out of the blue. Really took it out on me, this time. Got me right in the eye and I fell over, and he just kept on coming. Even though I didn't say nothing about it—what'd be the point, right? But he did anyway, and it was worse than the way he usually does it. Usually he doesn't go for my face or anywhere else you can really see. This time he went for everything._

_I've got to go to the grocery, but you can't cover this kind of thing up. I don't know what to do. If any of the town people see it, I won't be able to go to church anymore. They'd all stare at me, and I couldn't take that._

_And there was no good reason for him to _do_ it, this time—I didn't do nothing. Didn't say a word. I mean, I know what he does when I'm gone, and he knows that I know it, and even Merle—even Merle knows it. We all know it._

_If he could just send them off before I get home—keep them away from the kids—that's all I'd really ask._

* * *

Daryl heard a sound in the darkness. Snapped awake.

It was coming from the next room. Carol's chair, shifting against the floorboards. She was at the vanity table she'd taken to using as a desk—right on the other side of the wall from his bed.

He looked at that wall—at the faded patterns of the peeling wallpaper, barely visible in the dark. She was right there—so close that he could reach out and touch her if the sheet plaster wasn't standing between them. She was sitting up—reading those journals, or those newspapers, or reviewing those meticulous notes she'd been collating the last two weeks.

He'd never expected her to go into such rigorous detail with this thing. It was keeping her up at night. Making her do things she'd never _think_ of doing otherwise.

And she was sad, and upset. The journals made her cry.

He exhaled, hard, and stared up into his ceiling. He wasn't going to be able to sleep anymore. So he got up, and got himself ready to go out for the day's hunting. Picked up his crossbow, and checked out its works.

And of course he stopped at her door on the way out.

And that door was hanging open, and he could see her sitting at the table, just liked he'd expected. Fully dressed, with her candle burned all the way down. Her flashlight was lying on its side next to that. And he wasn't sure she'd slept at all.

Carol looked up from her notes, then. Saw him. He nodded to her, silently. She nodded back, pen in hand, and turned away to the page in front of her, again. In the silence of the house, he could hear her pen moving on the paper as he walked away.

And he turned, and made his way down that sweeping, Victorian stairway, one hand on that ornate, decorative bannister with the dust worked deep into the corners.

He only made it halfway down to the first level before he stopped. Paused.

Then he turned around, and went back upstairs again.

* * *

_6/5/80_

_I've been thinking and thinking about why he wouldn't let me bring both the boys to Sarah's. Why he wouldn't let me bring Daryl—just Merle. _

_He's got the idea that if I leave, and I have them both with me, I won't come back again._

_He organized the whole thing—the trip. Daryl. That woman. Beating it all out on me so I can't leave the house—not for however long it takes to heal up. _

_He planned out all of it, to prove a point._

_And he chose Daryl for a reason. _

_He knows which one of them I'd protect first. Which one I'd choose if I really had to choose. He knows which one I love most, even though you never ever ever say that sort of thing out loud. It's hard enough to say it here, where no one will ever see._

_But Edgar knows. He always just knows everything._

* * *

Carol spun around in her chair as Daryl came through the door. He walked straight into her room without a word, picked up the pile of journals on her vanity table, and headed out with them, again.

She leapt up and was in the door with him in an instant.

"Wait—what are you _doing?"_

He shook his head.

"Can't do this no more," he said, "It's gone too damn far."

"What? _No_—I'm getting close. I'm getting a real sense of who she—"

"Carol," he said, looking down at her over the pile in his arms, "It ain't _worth_ it."

She let out a heavy breath.

"And were you going to ask me what _I_ thought about this?"

No, he wasn't. He didn't know how. And he didn't answer the question. Just looked at her. And she sputtered out a reply, even though he hadn't said anything.

"I can find her. She's close. I _know_ I can do it."

She made to take the books back—pull them from his hands. And he didn't expect that, and flinched, and a moment later they were scattered all over the floor.

She dropped to her knees, and gathered a few of them up. Pressed them against her chest as if he was going to try to grab them. He didn't. Just looked down at her.

"No," Daryl said, "We need to stop. This ain't _safe_."

"But—but _look_, Daryl," she said, turning to the desk. Picking up her notebooks. Each was labeled, carefully, with a different subject—a different aspect of Rose's life. The trails Carol had carefully teased out of what she read.

"_Look_ at these. I've figured out everyone she knows—everywhere she went. Appointments. Who she talked to, what she read—what she _bought_. It's all got to add up to _something_."

He stepped forward, out of the door and into her room.

"She's _dead_, Carol."

"Thirty _years_ dead. Whatever the hell happened to her, it don't—it don't _matter_ no more. There's other things that—"

He cut himself off. Gestured to the air. She could feel the frustration pouring out of him.

"God _knows_ there's more to worry about now than this."

"Just give me the books, Carol. It's not important. Let it go."

And she felt cowed. Overpowered by that onslaught. There was something about that tone of forceful, masculine _reason_ that always got her in the gut. It was the same one Ed pulled out so many times when she talked back to him. And Carol looked down, and breathed hard.

And she thought of Rosalie, then. Rosalie, pleading with herself, after driving that woman out of her house—debating whether or not her husband had a good enough reason to beat her_._

Daryl stepped forward, towards her, then. He had one hand stretched out—open for the books in her hands. He expected her to just hand them over. And she moved away, fast, clutching them tightly against her chest. Glared up at him.

And he tilted his head to the side—almost looked sad, to her. And she didn't care. Felt the cold anger clenching at her stomach. Spat out words at him, filling the silence.

"Well, what now? Are you going to try and _take_ them?"

He stared at her, blankly, a moment. Clearly didn't understand what she meant. So she pressed on.

"I don't think you will. I mean… how would you do it, anyway?"

She nodded towards the crossbow on his shoulder. He'd been about to go out hunting.

"Would you point that _thing_ at me or just throw me down?"

He recoiled, at that. Raised his hands, palms up. Shook his head. No.

"_Carol…"_

She dropped the books on her bed, and caught up to him. The floorboards creaked under her feet.

"What do you _want_, Daryl? You want to be my husband?"

She pushed in close, and she could see him tighten.

"You want to be _Ed?"_

"You want to be your brother? You want to be your _father?"_

She'd never seen his face like it was then. And she knew, looking at him, that she'd hit him square on.

He swallowed hard. Didn't say anything for a while. When he did, it was quiet.

"No."

"Then don't you _dare_ tell me what to do."

"Don't you _dare_."

He turned from her. Crouched down. Picked up the journal closest to him, where it was lying on the floor. Placed it down on her vanity table. His hand lingered there a moment, on top of it. Then he stepped away.

"I won't."

He paused a moment, looking down at the journal on the table. Then he turned, fast. Left the room.

* * *

In that last journal, there was a black-eyed Susan pressed in one of the pages. That afternoon, Carol opened the book, and laid the flower carefully down on her vanity table. Didn't want it to crumble. And then she turned, and read what Rose had written, there:

_9/4/80_

_Today, Edgar was in one of those moods. One of the good ones that remind me of when we first started. _

_He brought me a black-eyed Susan, from the roadside—even though it was raining. Kissed me and tucked it in my hair. Said it reminded him of the ones at our wedding when he picked them for me— so I'd have something to carry even though it was just us and Mama and the judge._

_And I wrapped my arms around him, and Ed told me—_

Carol lost control of her hands, and dropped the book on the floor. Never finished reading that sentence.

Ed.

She never turned to that page of the diary ever again.

* * *

After that, Daryl stayed out most of the morning. Tried to regain his composure in the woods. But it wasn't really the same, anymore—wasn't the peaceful refuge it once was, back when he was a kid. It was overrun—full of walkers. He never knew when one of the dead would appear—darting out from around a tree or concealed behind the tangled stands of sweet briar.

And after what Carol had said, his heart just wasn't in it. He didn't want to hunt the dead. Even though they were rotted and bloody and drooling, they looked too much like people.

So he hunted the game he could find, until he had enough to feed everybody. And he avoided what walkers he could, and came back in the mid-morning with a string of carcasses on his back.

When he opened the door, he found Rick waiting for him in the front parlor. He had Carol sitting next to him on the ancient, Queen Anne sofa, there—the kind with claw feet. The wine-colored velvet was worn through in places, and the whole thing smelled like old dust.

"Have a seat, Daryl," he said. Carol didn't say anything, just looked at her shoes.

And Daryl immediately knew what was going on—after rescuing them at the church like that, Rick wanted to know what on earth they'd been doing in the center of town. He wanted to know why they'd lit off without a word, and why he'd ended up having to risk his kid's skin for them.

Daryl felt like he'd been caught in a trap. Looked around as if he could find an escape. They'd have to explain about his mama.

But there was no way out. So Daryl sat down, and let out an exasperated sigh. Dropped the dead birds and squirrels on the coffee table with a thud.

This was not the way he wanted to spend his morning.

"What's this?" Daryl asked, knowing full well what it was.

"We gettin' called into the principal's office?"

Beth and Maggie wandered by in the hallway, and eyed them through the door a moment. And Daryl was pretty sure they were listening out there, even after they moved out of view.

"We had to come after you," Rick said, "So it's only fair you tell me why."

Carol looked to Daryl then, and he had trouble holding her gaze. There was something cool in it—something hard that had never been there before. Nervously, he looked away. Out through the French doors, and towards the stairwell, with those carved women staring out on the newel posts. Their faces never changed. You could always expect the same thing from them. Colored light spilled through the tall, stained glass windows on the far wall, beyond their wooden hair, and eyes.

Rick was waiting for an answer. He opened his mouth to speak. Couldn't. Tried again. Sighed and fidgeted in his seat.

"Any time now," Rick said.

"This town… this is where I grew up."

Rick raised an eyebrow.

And Daryl explained everything, from there. About his mama, and about the unanswered questions he and Carol had been trying to explore.

When he was done, Rick just sat there, hands folded, with his index fingers resting lightly against his lips. And Daryl waited for him to order them to stop—as if he was some kind of general and they were his foot soldiers. And he started getting angry then. So annoyed at the idea of Rick telling them to stop that he was ready to fight him every inch on it—even though he'd wanted to give it up himself only a few hours before.

Finally, Rick lowered his hands, and tilted his head to the side. Looked up at Daryl, again, and said something Daryl never expected.

"Can I help?"

Rick smiled a half-smile to Daryl, then. And Daryl couldn't help but return it. The expression just fell out of him. And he looked past Rick's shoulder then, to Carol, sitting there silently. She hadn't said anything the whole time. He caught her eye.

"Don't ask me," Daryl said, and nodded towards her.

"Ask Carol."

He got up, and took the string of game in hand. Stepped towards the kitchen, where he'd clean the animals out. Paused in the door, turning back to the two of them on the sofa.

"This is Carol's fight," he said, "So it's Carol's call."

* * *

_9/5/80_

_You know, I wonder. Black Eyed Susans. Are they named after someone with dark eyes, or did someone hit her?_

* * *

That night, Rick and Daryl kept watch together. Apparently, Carol had decided to give Rick all the notebooks she'd been keeping. He had them in a pile next to his chair, and was looking through them on and off, when he wasn't searching the windows for signs of movement in the trees below.

She hadn't given him the diaries. And Daryl figured she'd understood that he wouldn't really want her to share them with Rick.

And Daryl had a piece of basswood in his hands. He'd found some in the basement—there was a little workshop there. So he'd started carving, again, like he used to do when he had the time.

And they didn't say too much. Daryl carved on the wood, and Rick read. Slowly, the initial shapes started to come out of the wood grain. Concentric circles, looped together around a larger, central ring. It would take a few days to get it the way he wanted—he wanted those rings smooth and splinterless. He'd sand them down and take off all the edges. That kind of slow, methodical work always left him feeling peaceful.

It was something he really needed, now.

A few hours into the shift, Rick dropped the notebook he was reading down into the stack, and asked Daryl a question.

"You still got those ears?"

Daryl chuckled, under his breath. Wondered what brought them to mind.

"Oh yeah," he said, "Hangin' on my bedroom window."

And Rick didn't say anything, then, so Daryl pressed on.

"You _still_ don't get it about those, do ya?"

And Rick shook his head. Let out a little, low chuckle of his own, and picked up the next of Carol's notebooks.

"Nah, I get it."

He opened it up, and started flipping pages.

"I get it."

* * *

_9/15/80_

_I asked Edgar if he thought I might take the boys to Sarah's and stay there a while. Needed to try it. Needed to see what would happen. I was real calm when I said it, like it wasn't any sort of big deal._

_But the thing is, he's so very, very smart. That mind of his is always working. And he always knows what I'm thinking. Always._

_He leaned in close, and stroked my hair back, and looked me right in the eyes. His eyes are such a soft blue. That was the first thing I ever noticed about him, way back when._

_And he leaned in and kissed me, and somehow that made me think that maybe he'd say ok this time._

_But he just kept kissing me—pulled me in, hard and deep, like he does. Then he pressed me down on the bed and climbed up over me. He's like a force of nature. Some sort of tidal wave that just rolls over me— and I lose myself in it every time._

_And his hand slid up under my dress, and then everything moved real fast. And it was every bit as good as when we first started._

_But the whole time—during—he whispered in my ear. Said I can't leave. Said I'd never, ever, ever leave. _

_He said he won't ever let us go. We belong to him. We're his family._

* * *

It rained the next day—cold and hard and steady. When Daryl came in from the woods, he was completely soaked.

The first thing he noticed when he opened the door was the soft sound of the piano, flowing out over the room. It washed over him, warm and rich, like the heat from the fireplace.

Carol was playing, again, and it was beautiful.

He drifted into the French doors—towards the front parlor where that piano stood. Watched her play, while his soaked clothes dripped water onto the hardwood floor.

* * *

_10/2/80_

_It's all my fault._

* * *

Carol chose Satie's _Gnossienne No. 4_ from the piano bench, that day. Practiced with it. She played out the phrases, one by one, building on them until she could play out the whole thing at a stretch. The rolling, slow lines were easy to work through, and she let them wash over her, and float out into the house beyond.

And she sensed a movement. Cut the melody short, and turned. Daryl was there, standing in the doorway, looking at the floor.

"Sorry," he said.

She didn't think he was just talking about the piano.

"It's just that it's so pretty."

He stood there, inspecting the floorboards—still stained, a bit, from the spilled wine they'd found there when the first came to the house.

"It's beautiful," he said, shyly.

And any lingering resentment she'd been clinging to melted away in an instant. She stood, and opened the bench. Knelt down beside it, and gestured to him.

The rain beat down on the windows beside her.

"Come here," Carol said.

"Help me pick out some more to play."

And then he was kneeling at her side, looking into the mass of sheet music.

"I don't know nothin' 'bout this kinda stuff," he said.

And again, she didn't think he was talking about the piano. Not really. And it twisted at her. She found herself reaching out to him, laying her hand against his cheek. And he let her do it. She felt him twitch, a moment—but then he settled. Let her rest her hand, there.

"That's ok," she said, softly. Stroked her thumb across his cheekbone. He blinked, once, at the movement. She could feel his breath shake, a little, where it flowed against her arm.

And she smiled to him, softly, and stroked the side of his face.

"Really… the more I think about it, Daryl…"

"The more I think about it, the more I think that none of us know much about anything."


	9. Seven Months

_Hello! Here is chapter nine for you—we are very close to the halfway point, now. I'm hoping I can keep up a brisk pace. I've been on fellowship this past year, but I'm headed back to teaching English literature this fall. So my spare time is about to shrink dramatically. I'm not sure, yet, how this will change my fic output. I'm hoping I can get this story done before season three starts. But we will see! Enjoy!_

_Oh, one more thing! I have started a tumblr account for my fanfiction, drawings, and whatever else strikes my fancy. User name of "Praxid," predictably enough. Check it out if you want! ;)_

* * *

_Seven Months:_

There was a passage in that final journal that Carol returned to over and over again:

_11/20/80_

_Seven months. That seems like forever, but I know it isn't._

Just a smattering of vague text— two sentences. Written in late November, when the sun goes down early and things start to get dark. They only took up one line on the diary page. But they lingered in Carol's mind.

And every time she read them, they always left her feeling cold.

* * *

Daryl's dreams became more and more vivid the longer they stayed in town.

And usually, in those dreams, he was searching for something. Scouring the woods behind his daddy's house. Often, he was tracking an animal. Or he was searching for Sophia. Sometimes he found her. Other times, he didn't.

And sometimes—sometimes he didn't know what he was looking for. He was just moving, on and on, through tall stands of grey trees.

And that night, in his dream, he saw a whitetail doe standing out on a high hill. She looked down at him, and met his eyes. And he _knew_ her. He wasn't sure where he knew her from, but she had always been there, somewhere in the back of his mind, watching him with those large, soft, overwelling eyes.

Looking at her now, in his dream, standing up above him on the landrise—he knew she had the answer. She knew what happened to his mama. She _knew_, and she was trying to tell him what she knew.

The journals were a smokescreen—the answer was already there, somewhere in his mind. If he could just follow where the doe led, he would figure it out.

And he snapped awake. Turned his head, and saw the heavy snow floating down outside the window. It was feathering lightly over the glass, and clinging to the frame in thick clumps.

And he stood, and looked out into the trees, and the swelling darkness.

* * *

Carol was asleep in her bed when she felt a hand on her arm.

She bolted upright, gasping for air. Made to yank herself away from that grip.

"_Hey_—hey, hey," Daryl whispered, taking her other arm, gently, and holding her in place.

She saw his face, in the dark, and registered who he was and what was happening. Daryl was in her room, leaning over her. Had come to wake her in the dark hours of the night.

"Oh God," she said, her voice hushed and shaking, "How many _are there?"_

"Hey—no," he said, still holding onto her arms. He settled down onto the edge of her bed, beside her.

"It's ok—it's ok."

And he waited while her breath slowed, and nodded to the window.

"It's just that… well, look outside."

And she turned, and saw the heavy snow floating down—the bluish light it made. The soft curtains of white draped thick and heavy over the pines beyond the iron fence. That fence was coated in thick snow, too—softening the edges and muffling the shadows.

Somehow, everything had changed while she was sleeping.

"Come on," he said, getting up from the side of her mattress, and making his way to the door.

"Get yourself ready."

She shifted, and looked towards him, there.

"You want to go out?"

He nodded, once. Gave her one of those barely readable, little smiles of his. Barely a twitch of the lips.

"I'll be waitin' downstairs."

* * *

Carol was thirty-two years old, washing dishes, and pregnant with Sophia.

She and Ed had just finished dinner. He was off in the living room, with some sort of sports on the television. And Carol was working on the casserole dish. Trying to get off the crusty bits at the corners.

She thought she might leave it to soak a while. In her experience, things tended to break down over time.

So she let the dish go, and it sank deep into the foamy water. And she could hear Ed in the other room, popping the top off his beer. Heard him exhale, hard. And she knew him well enough to imagine exactly what he was doing. He was sinking into his chair. Closing his eyes, breathing hard. His back was bothering him, and he was just trying to keep on going until it was time to go to bed.

She'd just told Ed she was pregnant. It was hard to get the words out. And she had put off the discussion as long as she possibly could, this time—the sixth time. After the five miscarriages that had come before—after all the lost babies and bitter disappointments, it seemed like a good idea to wait as long as possible.

She was a little ways into her second trimester, and she was already showing, a bit. He hadn't noticed.

They had sat there, across from each other at their kitchen table, and she just kept looking up from her plate at him, trying to figure out a way to say it. She spun her fork around in her hands. He silently ate his green beans and mashed potatoes and didn't look at her.

Finally, she just blurted it out.

"I'm pregnant."

He looked up, then.

And he put down his fork. Sat there for a while. Then he came over to her chair—gave her a desultory pat on the shoulder. Like he wanted to do what he was supposed to, but couldn't remember _how_, anymore.

Then he went to watch his sports.

And before she knew it, she found herself standing over the sink with the smell of the detergent in the air, staring into the water.

It was then she realized her wedding ring was getting tight on her finger. Her hands were swelling with the pregnancy—so much that the ring didn't fit, anymore. And she tugged on the band, and it wouldn't come off. And somehow _knowing_ it wouldn't come off made it feel even tighter. It was digging into her skin.

She pulled and pulled. Nothing. She spun around to face the room, looking for some way to get the thing off her hand. Her throat was tight, and she felt herself starting to cry. Muttered to herself, frustrated and angry.

"_God damn it_…"

And it just wouldn't come off. She felt hot tears running down her face. She wanted to throw the thing across the room.

She turned back, and grabbed the bottle of detergent from the window sill. Lathered her hands as much as she could. And she tugged and tugged until the ring flew off into the sink, and floated down into the water there.

She had to dig around for it in the sludge of soaked, half-eaten food at the bottom. And it was there. She pulled it out and looked at it. Dropped it over the top of the little porcelain cross she kept on her window sill. It was white bisque with gold lilies painted on it. Her mother had given her that, many years before.

And the ring fit perfectly, there. Slid right on and stayed put.

Carol finally got it back on her finger after she'd given birth. The swelling had gone down almost immediately after Sophia came. And when they brought her home, and Carol went back to washing dishes, she saw the ring there—just waiting for her on that little cross.

Nothing had changed.

So she put it back on, and kept it on. Never took it off again—not to shower, or when she weeded the vegetable garden. There wasn't any point.

And the strangest thing about it, for Carol, was how Sophia took to that ring. She loved it from the start. Even when she was a baby, she'd reach for it. Try to wrap her hand around the metal.

And then she'd smile.

* * *

Carol followed Daryl through the snowfall, and into the woods.

And for once, the walkers didn't come. They seemed to have trouble moving through the snow and ice. The two of them saw a few in the distance, but they were slow and spread out. The woods was as safe as it ever would be. She knew Daryl could handle them easily, like this.

And only two of the dead came anywhere close to them. Daryl was leading her down a long, swelling slope into the western edge of the forest when two figures came into view—materializing slowly out from the snowy mist. A man and a woman, standing directly across from them both. And the four of them all looked at each other a moment.

Daryl readied his crossbow to take them out, slowly and calmly. He had plenty of time. And he waited for them to get close before firing. Watched them come.

And for the first time, Carol wasn't really afraid to be near the walkers. She studied them. Watched their movements. Tried to understand them.

The way their attention moved from one stimulus to another puzzled her. A sound or movement would send them in a direction, and they'd head that way until something else distracted them. They weren't like anything that had ever been human, but they weren't like _animals_, either. They didn't have the kind of intelligence you see in them—not even in birds. There was no light behind their eyes.

And yet sometimes—sometimes they seemed to remember something. Like the naked girl in the attic, who wanted to rip out Carol's neck. The one Carl had killed when they were up there, looking for Christmas ornaments. There was an _intentionality_, there, in her eyes. And that was the most frightening part.

Daryl took his aim. Clearly wasn't thinking of anything like that. There was a calm, steady concentration in his face. He made it all look so easy.

And one after the other, the walkers fell into the snow. So silently that she barely heard them collapse in the muffled quiet.

He nodded to her, and headed out further into the woods. The trees were silent—the snow absorbed everything but the hushed sound of their own feet.

Daryl walked a little ahead of her. Didn't look at her much, or say anything. And she followed behind him, and watched the snow. Saw some animal tracks in it, and wondered what they were. Maybe a rabbit's, from the shape. But she couldn't tell.

And she almost asked Daryl, then, but didn't. Decided it was better to stay quiet.

* * *

When she was very little, Sophia would climb into Carol's bed some mornings—if Ed was still asleep, or if he'd already gotten up for the day. Carol usually stayed in their room a bit longer than he did, reading her Bible. And Sophia would doze at her side, warmed by her mother's body, and watch her turning the pages. And she'd reach up, sometimes, and touch the shining metal band on Carol's ring finger.

When they were out together, and Sophia was bored, she'd spin it around to occupy herself. In long lines at the grocery store. In doctor's waiting rooms. At church during long-winded sermons.

And as Sophia crept closer and closer to her thirteenth birthday, she'd started doing that less often. She stopped playing with her dolls so much, and she stopped playing with her mother's ring.

But when Sophia had a horrible stomach flu last winter, she went right back at it. That flu almost ruined Christmas for her—she only started really feeling like herself again on Christmas Eve. But the whole time, Carol sat with her and stroked her back when she threw up. And she'd cling to her mother's hand, just like when she was little, and spin the ring around.

* * *

The woods opened up onto a wide creek, mostly covered over with ice. The river stones were smoothed over by centuries of the fast current. Snow settled on them, and over the patterns in the ice. And the two of them moved along the edge, towards a bend in the water—a sharp oxbow full of willow trees. They were bare, now, and the remaining vines were coated with white instead of green.

Off in the distance, past the oxbow, she could see the remote edge of a Victorian cemetery, as silent and empty as the willow garden beside it.

Daryl stopped at the edge of the water, and the snow fell on his shoulders. In his hair.

She stepped up to him.

"Did you come here much?" she asked. Her voice sounded strange against the snowfall. Muffled. Far away.

"I mean—when you were a child?"

"Yeah," he said, turning away from her, looking out into the water that flowed under the thin sheet of swirling ice.

And he didn't explain. As it turned out, he_ never_ did—not for as long as they would know each other in the future. It was something she would never learn about him. One of many things she would never know.

"Yeah," he said, looking out over the creek.

"I did."

* * *

Shane decided to protect her family because of Sophia. Because of how she'd befriended Carl while they were stuck on the highway. Without her, he'd never have brought Carol and Ed along.

It had been almost impossible to get away from the traffic snarl where they'd met. Without Shane, none of them would have survived. And even after, when they were wandering side streets and rural roads, there were still crowds of dead _everywhere_. They were coming for them—down the streets—out from the houses. And more were starting to close in from behind.

They were surrounded.

"Stay down—all of you," Shane said, grabbing his shotgun, "Get in the cars and don't move until I say so."

"Tell me—Shane, right?" Ed asked, pushing in close, "Who exactly made you boss of us?"

Carol looked behind her. Saw the slow trickle of walkers creeping closer under the suburban trees. And she seized Ed by the arm and tugged him towards her.

"_You listen to him,"_ she hissed. Stared him hard in the face.

And for once, Ed backed off. Did exactly what she told him to do. Got in the car.

And she pulled Sophia down to the floor of the jeep—away from the gunfire. Huddled down with her and buried her face in her daughter's hair. And Sophia grabbed at her hands. Started to spin her ring around in circles, again.

After that, Sophia had taken to doing it more and more, when they were on the run. When they all holed up at the quarry, she'd cling to her mother at night, and spin the ring around on her hand until she fell asleep.

And in that tent, at the quarry, Carol always made sure to keep herself between Ed and Sophia. It was around then she'd started to get really worried about how he was acting with her. Started noticing things that reminded her of her own father. What he did.

So Carol would wrap her arms around her daughter when they slept, and shelter her against her body. And she would feel Ed's breath flowing down her neck from behind.

* * *

The sun came up as they stood in the snow. They'd been out a few hours, by then. Carol started to feel the cold working into her feet. The tips of her fingers were getting numb, and she buried them in her coat pockets.

And without saying anything, Daryl turned to leave the willow grove. It was like he knew she was getting cold, and was ready to go.

And Carol paused. Watched him start walking off. He didn't wait for her. Seemed to trust she'd follow when she decided she was ready.

She looked around. Waited until he was a good ways out, and she was alone.

And she pulled off her wedding ring. Dropped it soundlessly into the snow, and walked away.

* * *

When they returned, Carol went back up to her room. She needed to change out of her wet clothes.

And after she stripped them away, she wrapped herself in a blanket. Made to sit on her bed. And her bare foot brushed something on the floor. A card. She immediately recognized Rosalie's handwriting.

_Stanislaus 11/20 9:15_

When she had that fight with Daryl, it must have gotten separated from the rest of Rose's things. It must have fallen out of one of the journals when she'd knocked them from his hand.

She reached over for it, and put it on top of her nightstand. Looked down at it, there. And thought of that journal entry—the strange, short one that had left her cold.

_11/20/80_

_Seven months. That seems like forever, but I know it isn't._

That card was for an _appointment_—an appointment that very same day. And then it struck Carol head on—she couldn't believe she hadn't seen it before.

"You were _pregnant_," Carol whispered.

That November morning, over thirty years before, the doctor told Rose she had seven months to go until her third child was born.

* * *

Daryl spent much of the evening on watch with Rick. The sun went down as they sat together in that high tower, and the snowstorm tapered off along with the sunset.

They were both fairly certain nothing could attack the house that night. The dead were bogged down in the snowdrifts. But they kept up their routine—enjoyed it, really. It was something to do.

And Daryl was still working on those concentric rings. Sanding down the rough grain to a smooth, satin surface. They were getting to the point they'd be finished, soon. And Rick was sitting next to him, reading Carol's notes.

It got dark, and they watched the trees outside fade into the shadows. And eventually, out of nowhere, Rick spoke out.

"The baby's Shane's."

Daryl just kept on sanding the rough basswood. Nodded once.

"I know."

* * *

That evening, while Daryl and Rick sat together up in the tower, Carol helped Lori wash her hair.

Carol heated the water for her on the gas range, so it wouldn't be so freezing cold—something she'd stopped bothering to do when she bathed herself. And as she came back into Lori's room, there was something touching about seeing her there, thin and pregnant and naked—wrapped up in a towel, shivering a little against the cold of the house.

And Carol realized, with a pang, that because she'd been so wrapped up in other things, Lori hadn't been able to wash much all week.

"Ok," Carol said gently, taking Lori by the shoulders.

She wrapped her whole arm around Lori, and held her. Braced Lori over the bucket, as if she couldn't do it herself.

Lori smiled one of her tight-lipped smiles, and gently pushed her hands away.

"Let me do it, Carol."

And Carol watched Lori lather up her hair, sitting next to her at her bedside. The smell of the lavender soap worked its way into the air. And they didn't talk. Just listened to the water falling into the bucket.

Finally, as Lori dried off with a fresh towel, Carol spoke up.

"You been doing ok, Lori?"

There was a moment of strained silence.

"This room is getting _pretty_ small, by now," Lori said, slowly, "_But_… there's nothing to be done about it."

And Carol helped her back into her bed, and Lori settled down against the pillows as Carol covered her with the blankets. And then they sat together. Carol had long since given up on sitting in the chair next to the bed. She'd taken to curling up right beside Lori on the mattress, nestled close against Lori's pillows.

And she brushed Lori's hair. Worked out the knots and let the locks fall loose over her shoulders. It was soothing, gently laying out the beautifully soft, dark strands like that. It reminded her of brushing her grandmother's hair, when she was just a little girl.

And Lori broke the silence.

"You saved Carl. He told me."

"Oh, no," Carol said, shaking her head with a little smile, "Carl saved _me_."

"Him and the others—really. Without them, me and Daryl—we would have died up there."

"_God_, Carol," Lori said, "You gotta be more careful than that. We can't do this without you."

She paused.

"_I_ can't."

"And Carol—what were you two _doing_ out there, anyway?"

"Rick didn't tell you?"

Lori shook her head. Got quiet.

It was clear to Carol, then, that Lori and her husband weren't talking. And she didn't really know what to say about it. Didn't really trust Rick, herself—not really. It's why she wouldn't give him the journals—it wasn't only out of consideration for Daryl. She didn't _want_ to share them with Rick. She didn't really understand how he came to the decisions he made.

And somehow, she had an urge to protect Rosalie, too—even though she was gone. Wanted to shelter her from such a public sense of _exposure_—in much the same impulse that led her to wrap Lori up in that towel when she helped her wash.

And really, the journals were _hers,_ now. That had grown into an unspoken agreement between her and Daryl. They belonged to Carol, and they weren't for anyone but Carol to read.

But Rick was smart. He saw things. And he'd been a police officer, once. He was the only one in the whole group who'd investigated crimes, before.

And Daryl seemed to care about him. There was some sort of loyalty and affection there, now, that Carol didn't entirely understand. It wasn't the sort of thing familiar to her world. It was from that distant world of men and their bonds that she'd never really even seen, let alone been a part of.

So there were good reasons to let Rick in.

And, really, no matter what she'd told Daryl when he tried to take the journals away, Carol knew she wasn't getting very far. She wasn't close. So she needed help. And, really, Rick _asked_. Perhaps it was as simple as that.

"Carol?"

Carol started. Had no idea how long she'd been sitting there, thinking, and not saying anything.

"What were you doing way out in town?" Lori asked, again.

And she just didn't have the energy to explain it all. Instead, she laid a hand on Lori's stomach, gently. Felt a kick, and thought of Rose.

"We were off hunting ghosts."

* * *

The next morning, Rick, Carol, and Daryl sat together at the kitchen table. They had papers scattered everywhere—every available surface was covered with notes about Rose.

Rick shook his head. Gestured to the papers all over the table.

"All this stuff—and there's a _lot_ of it—and you've really got nothing."

He folded his hands beneath his chin. Looked to the two of them.

"Something's wrong, sure—but it could be just about _anything_. There's no hard evidence in what you've found so far."

"There was nothin' in the newspapers about her," Daryl said, "Carol told me."

"They're useless," Carol said, pushing some of the papers around on the table. The disappointment was obvious in her voice.

"All of that for _nothing_."

Rick interjected.

"Now, I wouldn't say that. That there's nothing mentioned there tells us a lot in and of itself. It means she wasn't reported missing. Small town like this, something like that would be news."

"No one looked for her," Daryl said.

Rick nodded.

"Right—not until now. And more than that—those papers don't mention your _father_. He was under the radar, somehow. From what Carol's said to me, it seems surprising that he wasn't brought in by the police for much of anything."

"My daddy… he was a cold, heartless bastard. Nobody I ever met's been quite like him. If you cut him, he wouldn't bleed one drop. May as well been carved out of fucking stone, that man."

Daryl leaned forward in his chair.

"But the thing is—he was _smart_. Not regular smart—not just street smart or book smart or anythin' like that. _Scary_ smart. Daddy always noticed _everythin'_ about _everythin'_ going on around him… he was always a few steps ahead. And he had this habit of gettin' away with whatever he put his mind to."

Rick paused a moment, then spoke, carefully.

"So I guess our list of suspects is a pretty short one…"

"Edgar," Carol said. No one had said it out loud yet.

She pressed on.

"He _had_ to have been the one. It's really just a question of figuring out how, and when, and why..."

"We shouldn't assume that," Rick said, "It's probably what happened—yes—but to do this right, we need to find some real evidence. We've got to be _sure_—we should consider every possible explanation."

"What do you mean?" Daryl asked.

"Well, for one, we don't really have any evidence she _died_. We all just assumed that. There's no body. Could there be another explanation?"

Daryl stood up from his chair, and looked down at Rick.

"Like _what?"_

"Could she have run away? That happens a lot more often than you'd think."

"No," Carol said, shaking her head, "She would never, ever have left without Daryl. She says so in her diaries. Explicitly."

She could sense Daryl pacing around the kitchen at her back.

"No—whatever happened to her, she didn't choose it. _It_ chose _her_."

"Ok," Rick said, "Then what about Merle?"

Daryl spun around on him from where he stood by the table.

"Good fucking _Christ_, Rick," Daryl said, "He was _ten fucking years old when this happened_."

"But he killed one of the dogs," Carol said, "The one named Scout. Do you remember Scout?"

"Not really," Daryl said. Started walking around the table in circles, again. He was agitated in that way he got—like a caged animal. He was full of some kind of nervous energy that just couldn't be held in by rooms and walls.

"Maybe a _little_—not really sure. I know there were four dogs, to start with."

"Your mother thought he killed that dog. She found the body, beaten to death with rocks. And she thought of Merle. Suspected him. That was the spring before she disappeared."

Daryl shook his head.

"No. No _way_."

Carol and Rick were silent, and it seemed to set him off.

"What _is_ it with you people and my brother? You'd think he was some kind of fucking baby eatin' _monster_ the way you always act about him. What in the name of fuck do you think he was _like_, really?"

_Was_. That was the word Carol latched on to. Daryl had finally done it—referred to his brother in the past tense. She'd been waiting for that—wondering how long it would take for it to happen.

"When our mama was gone—when we started wonderin' if she was comin' back—he was _worried_. I remember it. He _asked_ about her. _Missed_ her. It was snowin' real hard out. And he asks our daddy when our mama's comin' home. And he says, clear as fucking day, that Merle don't got no mama."

He looked down into the mass of papers on the table. Repeated it.

"You don't got no mama—That's what he said to Merle. You don't got no mama. Get used to it."

Carol winced at the idea of that. And Daryl just pressed on.

"Do you _really_ think he was ten years old and killed his own mama and managed to hide it from fucking _everybody_?"

"No. I don't," Rick said, "You're right—it's farfetched_,_ to say the least. It's just that there aren't many options to think through, here. We should consider _all_ of them."

Daryl rolled his eyes. Exhaled hard. And Rick tried to calm him down by distracting him—by giving him a task to focus on.

"You should go back to your house," he said, "Bring Carol—a new pair of eyes can help. See if there's anything more you can find in the rest of her things."

* * *

As soon as the roads were clear enough to travel, the two of them headed out. Carol sat behind Daryl on the bike, and lightly held onto his sides. She could feel how tense he was, even by that soft touch. And she wasn't sure why, precisely—if it was what Rick said about Merle, or if he was nervous about where they were going.

He was going to take her to his childhood home. The trees whipped by in the edges of her vision, and she looked out over his shoulder—straight ahead down roads he must have known by heart.

Cold air flowed over them.

And he turned onto a dirt road, and she knew that it had to be the one—the road where he'd grown up.

They sped past a shabby doublewide trailer with a homemade porch. The porch had a corrugated plastic roof. Dead weeds crowded the yard around the foundations, and some metal windchimes swayed in the wind, dangling out over the porch railing. The sound of them was muffled by the bike's engine.

And there was a sagging, ancient house on the far edge of the dead-end road. Half burned out, and tired. The windows were black holes, staring out at her.

Daryl pulled up in front of it. Put down the stand. And for a moment, neither of them moved. They just stared at the façade, together, and watched the cold wind move through the tall grass all around them.


	10. Good Shepherd

_I've got Chapter 10 for you all today—the exact halfway point on this little adventure. There are some more references to sex in this chapter, but I don't think they are graphic enough to warrant a higher rating. But if you don't want to read anything of that nature, please be aware of it._

_I've started a tumblr account, under the name of Praxid. I'd love for you to check it out. And thank you, thank you, thank you for reading!_

* * *

_Good Shepherd:_

No matter what happened to him—no matter how far he ran or what he did or how much things changed, Daryl always seemed to end up back at his daddy's house.

He pulled the bike up alongside the front yard. The melting snow soaked the dirt, and the wheels sank in low. His hands clenched tight on the bars.

And he could feel Carol hanging onto his sides, right there behind him. It made him nervous. He'd brought her to the worst place on the face of the planet. Just because Rick told him to. He'd been too wound up—acted on the idea without thinking through what it meant. He'd just wanted to get _outside_, for fuck's sake—and this is where it took him.

Normally, having her on his bike was good. Just knowing someone was there with him calmed him down. She didn't always ride with him when the group travelled—especially when the weather was bad—but Daryl always found himself hoping she'd decide to come along. He never _asked_ her to do it—the idea of asking never occurred to him. But he liked having her close.

Even so, Carol didn't belong anywhere near this place. He couldn't imagine letting her through the front door.

And the real joke was that this was the first time he'd ever brought a girl home. And he thought of what Merle would have to say about that. Daryl could almost hear his voice, as if he was standing right behind him. Laughing.

Daryl had seen some pretty weird shit in the last year—been through a lot more than he could put into words. The walkers were just the beginning of it, really. But having Carol here at his daddy's house… that was one of the strangest experiences of his entire _life_.

* * *

Daryl was six years old, and he and Merle hadn't seen their daddy for four days.

They had no clue where he'd gotten himself off to. No idea how to find him. So they spent that time holed up in the house—and it was getting tense being stuck in there together all day, every day. And Daryl was just a little kid, but he was fully aware of that tension.

Merle didn't go to school that week—just stayed with Daryl at home. And he'd been feeding Daryl as best he could, because no one else was around to do it. He didn't really know what he was doing, but he could at least make some approximation of a sandwich. So that's what they'd been eating.

And Merle dropped a plate of something on the coffee table in front of his brother. Yet another sandwich.

Daryl was curled up against the arm of the sofa. Looked up at Merle, standing there in front of him.

"He'll come back, right?"

"Yeah, man," Merle said, "Don't you worry 'bout that."

"What're we gonna do if he _don't_ come back?"

Merle didn't say anything. So Daryl started to get up off the couch, and tried again.

"Merle—what are—"

Merle shoved him, then—hard. He fell back against the cushions.

"Just shut the fuck up and _eat_," Merle said.

* * *

When Carol saw the house for the first time, it looked just like it had in her dreams. A tired, drooping, grey old homestead. The kind you sometimes see on rural roads—empty and choked full over with weeds. It looked as if someone dropped it down there, years ago, to give it a quiet place to die.

Rosalie had drawn the house, one spring, when she was still living there. She planted flower beds along the porch. And Carol could see some of the rough outlines of them, still—the brick borders, chipping away with years of wet and sun and heat and cold. And the weather had worked into the wood siding. It peeled the paint and ate the tarpaper on the sagging roof.

Carol couldn't imagine anyone living in this place.

She got off the bike, and Daryl didn't move. His face was blank and unreadable—vaguely hostile. Like he thought he could stare down the house that way—make it shrink away and disappear. And she knew he'd snap at her if she said much of anything.

He was frightened. He tried to hide it, but she'd read those journals. She knew the kind of things that happened here, and she could see how tightly he was gripping the handlebars.

She moved through the yard. Stumbled on something in the tall grass—something that made a dull, wooden thud against her boot. She looked down, and saw a rotting skull. It had long since rolled away from the rest of the body. There was an arrow still lodged in it, deep in the bone.

Walkers. Daryl and Merle must have killed them when they made their escape.

Looking past that skull, Carol saw that there were a few more body parts hidden in the grass. Now that she was closer, she could see them clearly—the dried skin clinging to the mangled, exposed bones. Animals had gotten to the bodies since Daryl and Merle put them down, and had scattered the remains around the yard.

She wrapped her arms around herself, and headed towards the front door. Stepped over a desiccated arm that was sprawled out over the front walk. She didn't look back, but she was sure that Daryl was still on the bike, and that he had his eyes on her.

"Come on," she said to him, gently, without turning around.

"Let's get it done."

* * *

Carol was thirteen years old, and she was running through the side yard at her father's house. Around her mother's vegetable garden and under the stand of ash trees—rushing full tilt for the backyard. She'd bolted outside the moment she heard the first peal of thunder, because there was laundry on the line. If she didn't get it all in fast, it'd be soaked. So she ran out through the grass in her bare feet—didn't take the time to put on her shoes.

There was a smell of dampness in the air. Of coming rain. An electrical energy hovered over everything—that tension that rolls in just before a storm.

She rushed around the clotheslines, pulling down pillow cases and towels and bedsheets. Got through a row and headed for the next, awkwardly balancing the laundry basket on her hip. She reached up for the top of a sheet—unclipped the clothespin at the edge. Had to stand on her toes to reach.

And when she pulled it down, she saw that her father was standing on the other side.

It was long before the night of that piano recital. Before anything had happened. And he just stood there and watched her.

But the way he looked at her made her feel sick. And she wondered, standing there, if that feeling was what he really _wanted_. That it did something for him—that it made him feel strong to show her how weak she was in comparison.

The rain started to fall. She could feel it on her cheeks—cool, fat droplets that started slow and then poured down in buckets. And he just kept staring, as she held that sheet in her hand, and they both got soaked with rain.

And she got clumsy, then, and dropped the laundry basket on the ground.

* * *

Carol watched from the upstairs landing as Daryl carried his mother's things down from the attic. There were a couple cardboard boxes—overstuffed, so that the sides bulged. He put them down on the landing for her, and then turned away. Leaned against the wall, arms folded—looking down into the stairwell.

He didn't want much of anything to do with this process. It was obvious. She'd search the boxes alone. And she wondered, then, how to tell him what she'd figured out yesterday—that his mother was pregnant when she disappeared. Wondered if she should tell him at _all_—if he'd want to hear it.

She shook it off. Later. She'd think about it later.

And she crouched down over the boxes, and opened the first lid. And it gave Carol a chill to think of the last person to touch them. Edgar.

* * *

After six days went by, Merle and Daryl's daddy finally walked in the front door. And he slammed it shut, and the whole house seemed to shudder under the force of it.

Daryl and his brother watched him from the couch.

The first thing he did was go to the fridge and get a beer. Hovered at the door, with the little fridge light glowing over his face. He squinted at the space inside. Turned and popped the top of his beer can. Headed for the stairs—was going up to his room. Spoke calmly and coldly, without looking at the two of them as he passed them by.

"Where the fuck did all the bread go?"

* * *

Rose's things were just tossed into the boxes. There was no rhyme or reason to any of it. Edgar must have stuffed it all in there haphazardly—swept things off tables and dumped them out of drawers. It was a complete mess.

When he did it, he must have been very, very angry.

Carol reached into the box—dipped her hand in deep, through a pile of blouses and dresses and lingerie—felt something under them, and pulled out a Bible. Almost all of the pages had been torn out, and then meticulously taped back into the binding, one by one.

Below that, there were framed photographs. She hovered over them, a moment. There were pictures of the dogs. The children. The forest—all the subjects of Rose's drawings come to life.

And the last photograph was of Rosalie, herself.

Carol held her breath, and touched the glass. Finally, they were face to face.

And Rose was just a _girl_—couldn't have been much older than Maggie. She was perched on the porch stairs, beside those flower beds, with her arms wrapped around one of the dogs. Carol thought it might be Scout. And Rose's long, wavy brown hair spilled all over her shoulders, and over her blue eyelet sundress. She was smiling.

And Carol didn't know entirely why she did it, but she tucked that picture into her bag to take back with her.

There were some more books beneath that—mostly prayer collections and devotionals. There was a yellowed folder full of old school reports, with the name "Rose Connely" written on the front.

And Carol found a little jewelry box—hanging open, upside down. The latch came loose when it was thrown in with the rest, so everything inside had scattered all over. There were gold earrings caught in the lace of her lingerie. A little hairpin with an enamel lily, wedged between some books. A delicate, pearl necklace tangled in the zipper of a jacket. That necklace reminded Carol of the one her grandmother used to wear.

And below all that, there was a hairbrush, with strands of brown hair still wound in among the bristles. A toothbrush. A wallet, with Rose's driver's license and fourteen dollars still inside. Carol took out that license, and looked it over. Rosalie was just barely twenty-six when she disappeared. She was an organ donor.

Carol looked up at Daryl. He was still standing there, back turned, motionless and silent.

"Your mother didn't run away," she said, "Something else happened to her. No woman would leave all this behind."

Without any warning, he punched at the wall beside him. She started at the sound it made. His fist left a little dent in the plaster.

"Don't you ever stop _talking? God."_

He spat out the words, and went down the stairs to get away from her.

* * *

The Monday after her wedding, Carol stood in front of a dryer at the Laundromat. Waited for the cycle to stop spinning, and stared through the window into the tumbling mass of socks and shirts and underwear.

She could have used her Mom's machine, back home, but she didn't want to go to her parents' house to do the stuff. Now—for the first time—she didn't _have_ to go there unless she wanted to. She was a married woman, now, and she could go it on her own.

And when the buzzer rang out, she opened the door. Scooped out Ed's underwear, and socks. Everything was warm against her fingers, and fresh and clean.

So she started matching pairs of socks. Rolling them into little balls, and throwing them in the basket.

* * *

Carol looked at the dent Daryl had made in the plaster. And she wasn't angry or upset. Daryl hadn't been thinking clearly enough to really hurt her with his words. He'd only managed a glancing blow—would have to aim a lot more steadily than that to really get to her.

But Carol decided to stay upstairs, look around, and give him a moment. So she opened his father's bedroom door, and walked inside.

There were empty bottles and cans on the floor. Rumpled clothes—Edgar's clothes. Daryl said he'd died about two years ago, now, and his dirty laundry was still piled in the corner.

She went up to the little night table, with its mirror standing above. It was coated in dust. Half the room was open to the elements—a good part of the far wall had crumbled away from fire damage. So a withered oak leaf had blown in—wet and dirty—and it stuck to the glass. She looked into the mirror, and the leaf obscured part of her face.

There was a necklace dangling over the edge of the mirror's frame. It was golden and delicate and small. A tiny cross on a thin chain. Rose must have worn it so much that she kept it out. And the little cross was propped up over a prayer card tucked into the corner of the mirror. That had to have been Rose's, too.

No one had touched it in over thirty years.

* * *

Daryl could hear Carol moving around upstairs. She was in his daddy's room. Her feet made the loose, old floorboards creak and whine and complain. That sound was so familiar. It was like his daddy was back up there again.

He stared out into the backyard from the burned out hole that used to be Merle's bedroom. There were a pile of bodies in the dead grass. The remains of the snow coated them. Clung to their rotting clothes.

When he was a kid, Daryl spent a lot of time in the backyard, running with the dogs. He'd throw the ball for them, and they'd go after it with reckless abandon.

He almost smiled, then—remembering Boss and Red and Buddy, and the smell of autumn leaves in the air.

And sometimes, Merle would watch from the back step, with a beer in his hand.

Daryl looked down, into the burned out maw that had been Merle's room. The fire tore through the foundation and you could look down into hardpacked dirt below. A charred mess of old weeds.

He shouldn't have said that to Carol. None of this was her fault.

And he sighed, hard. Decided he should go up there and talk to her.

* * *

Carol reached over, and took the prayer card from its place. There was a pastel Jesus in his dreamy white robes, cradling a lamb in his arms. The ink was getting yellow with age. And the card had an inscription, printed in gold. Carol knew that passage by heart. It was John 10:11:

_I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd gives his life for his sheep._

She turned to the back. Rose had written something there, in plain blue ink:

_Luke 17:2_

That was it. No quotation—just the reference. It was as if Rosalie wanted to think of that passage when she looked at the card, but didn't want anyone else to read what it was.

So Carol went to get Rose's Bible. Looked it up. Traced the lines with her finger, and whispered the words out loud:

"It would be better to be thrown into the sea with a millstone hung around your neck than to cause one of these little ones to fall into sin."

And Carol knew Rose, now. Understood a lot about her. And so Carol had a sense that she was thinking of Merle when she wrote that. That she was worried about him. Felt helpless—utterly unable to do anything for him. Carol knew, from the journals, that Rose could barely even _speak_ to Merle.

But even so, Rose felt for him. Keenly felt her own powerlessness to intervene. She just let it all happen—everything that went on around her. She watched it all from the sidelines, silent and passive. _Knew_ she was doing it, and did it anyway. She saw it all happening, and didn't stop it—so she blamed herself for it all.

And just then—for the first time—Carol blamed her, too.

* * *

It was a hot day at the quarry—one of the first of the summer. Carol and Lori had been sitting together a bit after feeding everyone breakfast. They could see some of the men in the distance, chopping wood. Jim, and Glenn, and T-Dog. Ed was there, too.

Sophia and Carl were at their feet, sitting in a patch of grass, working on some math problems together. And Carol watched them while sipping from a bottle of water. Enjoyed Lori's company, even though they weren't really saying much of anything.

And when the kids were done with their work, Carl asked his mother to take him down to the water. It was hot, and he wanted to swim.

Sophia jumped up at that, eagerly.

"Mom, can I go with Carl?"

Carol smiled. Nodded. She had a lot of work to do—was going to do as much laundry as she could that afternoon. Sophia would just get bored hanging around at her side all day.

So she stroked back her hair, and smiled at her.

"Just you listen to Lori and don't get out too deep."

* * *

Carol spent a good amount of time sitting on the edge of the bed, reading Rose's Bible. She lost herself in the Psalms. Dove in deep, and let David's words speak to her again. And they soothed her, like always.

She hadn't read from her own Bible in over a week—hadn't really even thought about her prayers. It all seemed less important than it did before. And that made her a little sad—but only a little. She was focused on the here and now.

She sensed a movement, and saw Daryl standing in the doorway. He'd slipped upstairs so silently she hadn't heard him. He'd been watching her—she had no idea how long. She met his eyes, and immediately knew his anger had faded away. He wanted to apologize.

And it was alright. She understood.

And in that moment, a soft wind blew out over her neck—out from the open wall at her back. It filled the room with the cool, fresh scent of the melting snow.

He stepped into the room, and she got up—moved forward to meet him. He started to say something to her, but stopped short when she reached out, with both hands, for his face.

He froze—as if he wasn't really sure what she was going to do. He wasn't breathing. And she wrapped her arms around him, then. Felt his back tighten against the press of her hands. But she pushed in—moving in close against his chest. Hesitated, a moment, when he flinched.

But he had his eyes on her. One of his hands drifted up to the small of her back. It rested there, lightly.

And when she pressed her lips against his, he didn't flinch at all.

* * *

Carol had gathered laundry from most of the people she knew in camp. Was about to head off to the water when she saw a movement in the trees.

It was one of the newcomers—one of those two brothers. The ones who had shown up out of the blue the other day. He had a crossbow on his shoulder and a string of dead animals on his back.

Jacqui told Carol what she'd heard about the pair them—the younger one had saved Amy's life when he ran across her during a supply run. He and his brother had just been passing through, and came on Amy by accident. And the two of them—Amy and that younger Dixon—they'd been pretty much totally surrounded. He'd barely managed to get her out of the mess before they were both torn to shreds.

And that's how the Dixons ended up here. No one seemed quite sure what to make of them, yet—except that they seemed coldly unfriendly and intimidating.

And yet Carol found herself stepping forward, towards him. She was going to cross his path anyway, eventually, so she may as well feel the thing out.

"Uhm, hello?"

She waved, tentatively, with one hand. Caught his eye. He turned, and looked at her.

"Hello there?"

She closed the distance between them. He grunted something that must have been some kind of greeting.

"I'm Carol..." she said, softly. He stared at her. And she got a little nervous. Tried to fill the silence.

"Peletier."

He nodded, once.

"I'm doing some laundry for everyone, and I was wondering if you—would you like to throw anything in?"

He looked at her, blankly. She couldn't read his face. He just looked angry, and she wasn't entirely sure why.

She didn't know how to talk to this man—didn't even learn his first name until later. And in that moment, the idea came to her that she had absolutely nothing in common with him. Was absolutely certain they'd never be able to understand each other at all.

* * *

Carol was kissing him, and Daryl was paralyzed. His mind went totally blank as she pulled him in, gently insistent, with her hands in his hair.

His mind caught up with her a moment later. Started racing through all sorts of conflicting thoughts in a confused tangle—how little he understood what to do. How warm she was. How much he wanted her.

It was too much to take.

So he wrenched himself out of her grip. Turned away. He realized his hands were shaking, and pulled them in against his chest. Didn't want her to see.

And he thought of what his daddy would say about that. What Merle would say. He couldn't even kiss a woman.

Carol stayed there at his back. He could hear her breathing. And she didn't do anything. Just waited. And he eventually turned back to her, and looked at her face. It was still, and calm, and gentle. As if she'd wait there for him, quietly, forever.

And somehow, because of that—because of _her_—what Merle and his father would say didn't matter. _None_ of that stuff mattered anymore—not really. Merle was gone. His father was dead. And he and Carol weren't.

They were here. They were alive.

And so he came back to her, and she looked up at him with those large, sad eyes. She laid a hand on his chest. And he leaned in. Kissed her—uncertain and soft, at first.

But when she pulled at his jacket—tugged it away to the floor, he found himself drawing her in with both hands. Kissing her hard and groaning in the back of his throat.

She was tugging at his shirt—unbuttoned it, and pushed it away. And then he stood with the cool air moving over his skin. And before he knew what was happening, she'd pressed him down, gently, against edge of the bed. She unwound her scarf, and laid it neatly on top his daddy's footlocker. And her coat and the rest followed.

And she was standing there before him, naked, with the wide forest spanning out at her back. He looked at her—at her ordinary, middle-aged body—and he ached for her.

The trees behind her stretched on forever. The morning sun spilled over her pale shoulders—through the collapsed wall and into the room. And with the soft light flowing over her, it seemed like she was a part of that forest. Like she belonged there in the trees—in their cool, gentle silence.

And she came to the edge of the bed. Climbed over him, and settled slowly down above him. He faltered.

"I haven't—I ain't never—"

She pressed her lips against him, again, silencing the words.

Her hand ran down his chest, and for a moment another flurry of thoughts rushed through him.

But when her hand reached his belt, he stopped thinking anything at all.

* * *

Daryl had just stepped out of the woods and into the camp at the quarry when Carol Peletier came up to him. Asked to do his laundry.

He knew right away that her husband beat her. He could see it in her face—as if it were written there.

When she spoke, it was with the gentle sort of timidity he saw in the does in the forest.

And so he was a little scared of her. Of her quiet voice. How weak and fragile she was. He didn't see any way he could have anything to do with someone like that.

So he said no.

"Nah," he said. Turned to walk away.

But then he stopped, cleared his throat, and spoke up again.

"Uhm, no… thank you."

He threw that last bit in as an afterthought. It sounded painfully awkward in his own ears.

But he'd found himself wanting to be kind to her, somehow, and that was the best he could do on short notice.

* * *

Daryl buried his face against Carol's neck, shuddering hard against the warmth of her skin—his arms wrapped tightly around her back.

He clung there a long time, and held her. Listened to her breath slowing down as it brushed over his ear. And then he rested his head in the crook of her neck— drinking in the clean, fresh scent of her skin and hair.

This woman. This beautiful, _beautiful_ woman.

She was no burden, regardless of what she'd said before. Regardless of what everyone else thought. She wasn't weak. She was a _force_. Life tried to grind her into the ground over and over and over again—it beat on her with words and fists and whatever else that came up handy. Threw everything it _could_ at her, and she still kept on going.

She could walk into the darkest place he'd ever known and defeat it with a touch of her hand.

And as if she'd read his mind, Carol touched him, then. Lifted one hand to his face. Raised his jaw so she could look at him. Ran her fingers through his hair, and smiled.

* * *

They stood in the living room together, downstairs. They were both dressed again, for the most part. And it was slightly strange between them. They didn't say much. But at the same time they were both feeling a sort of peace that had been absent since the walkers came. A rare calm. A sense that things were alright, for once.

Carol took a last look around the room. Wasn't sure if she'd ever come back here, again. And she realized there was one place she hadn't looked, yet. Daryl's old bedroom. She could see the closed door.

So she went to open it. He didn't follow—hung back, pacing around in the living room. Settled into the edge of the burned-out maw that opened up to the backyard, and stared out into the trees.

Carol pushed the bedroom door open, holding her scarf in one hand. It trailed a little on the floor, behind her.

When she walked in, she absently dropped her scarf on the bed, and looked around.

There wasn't much in there. Some books on a row of shelves. A tired looking, old bed. His window sill was covered with small, wood carvings. Little animals, and carved chains. She reached out to touch them. Her fingers lingered over a small sparrow, and its wooden wings.

And she leaned in, close. Noticed something.

The window sill was coated with thick dust. It stuck all over the carved figurines, and on the chipped paint of the window frame. But there were some clean spots in the dust—the outlines of some missing carvings. Someone had taken a few of them. Had done it recently enough that the dust hadn't made its way over the lost territory.

And she turned, then. Her foot hit an open can. Canned peaches, just lying there on the ground.

Daryl was hardly what she'd call a fastidious man, but somehow she didn't think he'd leave food lying around like that.

She drifted to the door.

"Someone's been _in_ here," she said to him, looking out into the living room.

And that left both of them unsettled. Got them thinking. Took away much of the calm that had settled over them before.


	11. I Died for Beauty

_And now I have the pleasure of starting on the second half of this story__—_I'm really looking forward to it. More not-very-graphic references to sex and sexuality, here, but I don't think they're going to get anyone clutching their pearls. 

_Check me out on tumblr, user name "Praxid"__—_I do some sketches of the characters and like to write random thoughts about them, too. My nerdy soul needs its outlets, I suppose...

_More later! Enjoy!_

* * *

_I Died for Beauty:_

_12/25/80_

_I had a dream last night. Don't really know how to describe it. There was something in the walls—moving around behind the sheet plaster, and in the ceiling. Between the living room and the floorboards upstairs._

_I could hear it beating on the wood up there—trying to get out. And down in the living room, the plaster flaked and crumbled and fell all over the sofa. _

_And then it was creeping around down below—in the living room—inside the walls. The thing. I could hear the beams groaning wherever it went._

_I think it was Scout, somehow—moving around in there. I thought I could hear him whining. Hear his panting breath._

_If I could just tear my way out of my skin and rip out my hair and get out. If I could get _out_ of here, things might be ok._

* * *

By the end of that last December, Rosalie was getting desperate. Carol could hear it in her voice as she read. See it in her handwriting. And that writing—it got more ragged over time. The ink got heavier, like she was pushing hard on the paper as she moved along. Sometimes it smeared on the page, and Carol could see the side of Rose's hand imprinted there in blue.

Rose's desperation told Carol yet another story. A story leading up to the day she disappeared.

This time, it was a story about Daryl.

* * *

_12/1/80_

_I walked in the woods with Daryl, this morning. It was so pretty—warm and sunny like it sometimes gets even in the early winter. Like a gift from Jesus, reminding you that everything was green, before—will be again. And the two of us, we smelled the leaves and watched the very last of them falling away from the bare branches. He kept running ahead of me, and I kept having to call him back._

_And I call him back this one time, and he grabs my hand. Wanted to show me something. He pulled me towards a clearing to show me what he found._

_There were some white, old bones, bleached by the sun. A young buck, from the size of the thing, wrapped all around with sweet briars. They twined the ribcage full over—like braids. The tendrils curled up from the antlers. The leaves on them were such a pretty, pure yellow, and there was tall grass clinging all around the skeleton. That buck had to have been there all year._

_So rare to see something like that—completely untouched by the other forest animals. Really, I'm not sure I've _ever_ seen anything like it before._

_There was something about it. Something sad. Beautiful. The kind of beautiful that's too much to take. The kind it hurts to think about._

_So we sat in the grass, side by side, and Daryl pulled some of the stalks up by the roots. Made piles of the autumn leaves. Played with the propellers from the oak trees. And the winter wrens were singing out somewhere above us—and for a little while, things really did seem ok._

* * *

When Carol and Daryl returned to the painted lady, the whole house was full of a quiet energy—the sounds of their friends' voices. Soft murmurs of conversation. People were still enjoying some of the peace from the snowfall—sitting together, quietly, or reading. Nobody had really gotten back to work, yet.

Daryl spent some time in his room, alone, finishing up that carving he'd been making. He polished it with beeswax and buffed it down. That waterproofed the wooden rings—gave them a smooth, subtle shine. When he was satisfied with them, he dropped them in a brown paper lunch bag and headed on downstairs.

When he reached the bottom of the stairwell, he could see straight into the front parlor. Had his hand on top of one of those newel posts—above one of those women with her braided hair.

Hershel was sitting by the fire, reading a book—and Beth was perched on the arm of his chair, leaning against his side, reading along. Maggie and Glenn were doing something or other in the kitchen, further off. Cooking something, together, from the smell. And the rest came in and out. He could hear voices down the hall. T-Dog saying something to Rick, and Rick saying something, quietly, in return.

He passed by the fireplace, and Beth looked up. Smiled at him. He nodded, and kept on going—out through the big French doors with their leaded glass, and through the hall. To the back parlor they'd turned into a bedroom for Lori.

He stood in Lori's doorway, quietly. Carol was in there with her, lying on the bed right at her side—had taken off her boots so she wouldn't mess up the blankets. One of her socks had a hole in it.

And Lori—Lori actually had her head resting on Carol's shoulder. Just a little bit—barely a brush of the hair. It was strange to see.

Carol was reading aloud to her. Not the Bible, this time. Something different. A book of poetry. And he listened in.

"_I died for beauty, but was scarce  
__Adjusted in the tomb,  
__When one who died for truth was lain  
__In an adjoining room._

_He questioned softly why I failed  
_'_For beauty," I replied  
_'_And I for truth—the two are one,  
__We brethren are,' he said._

_And so, as kinsmen met a night,  
__We talked between the rooms,  
__Until the moss had reached our lips,  
__And covered up our names."_

When she went silent, again, Daryl cleared his throat. Both of the women looked up.

"Hey," Carol said, climbing off the bed to come over to him—holding her boots in one hand. But Daryl hadn't come looking for her—not this time. He was looking for Lori.

So he nodded in Lori's direction.

"Got a minute?"

She blinked, and nodded.

"Uhm, sure."

Carol smiled, and made to pass by him in the doorway.

"I'll go find Carl."

She met his eyes as she moved by, and he was keenly aware of her presence as she slid past him through the door.

Lori was watching him, inquisitively. They were alone. He'd lost his train of thought, and had to chase it down again before he could say much.

"I, uhm—I've got somethin' for you."

He held out the bag to show her. Stepped close enough to hand it to her, and darted back again.

She opened it. Looked at the wooden rings. Was clearly a little puzzled by them. Turned them in her hand. They rattled together.

"You make these?"

He nodded. And from the next room, a soft piece of music started floating through the air. Carol was playing the piano, again. Something sweet, and dreamlike. Daryl didn't know it, but it was Edvard Grieg's _Peace of the Woods_.

"I finished 'em with beeswax, so they're safe."

And she raised them to her nose and actually sniffed the wood. Nodded. Made a little noise in the back of her throat. Looked up to him, again, from the carved rings. Confused.

But just a few seconds later, she lit up. Smiled. She'd figured out what they were.

"Teething rings."

He looked down a moment. Felt a little awkward.

"Yeah."

She leaned forward, towards him. Her eyes were wet.

"Thank you."

He didn't really know what to say, so turned back to the French doors. They opened up to the hall, and he could see straight into the front parlor. To where most everyone had congregated to listen to Carol play.

So he stayed there in Lori's doorway—where he could see it all without getting into the middle of the crowd. And they listened to Carol at the piano, together, while the sun went down.

* * *

_12/5/80_

_Edgar's started teaching Merle how to use the guns. I heard them shooting in my back yard, today. _

_I was sitting with Daryl on the living room floor, watching him looking though his books—the coffee table books full of photographs that I got him at the church sale. I thought he'd like the pictures, and he does. _

_It's so nice to watch him go through them like that. It feels good to watch him, when it's quiet enough. When we're alone. He really focuses on whatever he's doing. He thinks._

_He was looking through the book about the pacific coast—really lingering over a big, fold-out panoramic of the ocean. Leaning over it and checking out all the details._

_He had one hand on the page—on the blue waves way out past the rocks. And then I heard the first shots._

_I went and looked out from the back step, and saw the two of them out there. Merle and Edgar. And Edgar was smiling at him and clapping him on the shoulder like they were the best of friends._

_I just couldn't watch. _

_It was the way Edgar was looking at him more than anything else. I'm not the only one who's got a favorite._

_It's got to stop. I have to get the boys out of here—_both_ the boys—before something bad happens._

* * *

Late that night, Daryl came down the stairs from first watch with Rick at his side. It was past one in the morning, and he was tired. They reached the hallway, and Rick nodded to him. Didn't say goodnight. Didn't need to, really. Neither of them were the kind who says things just to say them.

As Daryl headed down the hall, he could hear Rick settling in for the night—closing his bedroom door at the far end of the hall.

And then Daryl turned to his own door. Froze in place.

It was ajar. He saw it immediately. His eyes narrowed, and that old instinct took over—the one that filled him with cold apprehension the moment he noticed any detail was off. He nudged the door open, silently—scanning the room.

And Carol sat up in his bed.

She had his blankets and sheets wrapped around her. And he could see her bare shoulders in the dim light. Her robe was neatly folded on his chair.

And on top of the robe, her nightdress was folded there, too.

They looked at each other, and he stepped forward.

* * *

Carol waited a long time for Daryl to finish the first watch, dozing lightly under his bedsheets.

She hadn't been able to sleep in her own bed. Just kept looking at that wall that separated their two rooms. And she just found herself drawn to go there.

And after that, they started to come together in the night. Carol kept on going to him—slipping into Daryl's room in her bare feet. And later on, as he grew more accustomed to the idea of the thing, Daryl started going to her, as well. He would knock gently on her door, late some nights, and she would let him in.

And Daryl didn't really know how to touch her—what to do. He never said much about it, of course, but she understood that he'd been painfully alone in his old life. He'd barely _spoken_ to a woman, back then—let alone had one in his arms.

And it shook him to be with her—she could tell. She could see how strange it was for him to wake up beside her when those nights were over. And in the early morning, he'd watch her as the sky outside grew brighter and the light swelled over their bedsheets. He'd look into her face. She wasn't always sure what he was thinking, when he did it. Sometimes she'd be asleep through most of it, and wake up to find that he was watching her. But other mornings, she was awake the whole time, and she'd lie there, looking back at him, silently.

With Ed, these things had always been so remote and hard and perfunctory—and had always left her feeling lonely. She would stare off into their bedroom ceiling those nights, next to him, after he'd taken her. After he'd finished, and fallen asleep. And her throat would be tight. A cold weight would crush down on her chest—the knowledge that this was the rest of her life, right here.

She would lie there, listening to him breathe, and imagine that she was already dead and buried. Imagine her skin was stiff and cold—that the darkness in the room was the dirt all around her, and she'd never move ever, ever, ever again.

Other times, as she lay there, she would imagine that she was the only person left alive in the entire world.

So while Carol was no virgin, she didn't entirely understand how to be with Daryl, either.

And so they were timid and awkward together. Carol didn't mind. That uncertain, shy clumsiness made her feel as if she'd started over again. When they were together, she found herself full to aching with a raw, wordless, tender _need_—it would rush over her like waves on the ocean. It reminded her of those old summers, when she'd go out in the strongest high tides and she'd barely be able to swim. The waves would just bowl her over again and again.

She'd only ever felt a hint of that with Ed, way back when she was sixteen years old.

* * *

And so with Daryl, everything was completely different than what she'd known before.

That first night in his room, he was above her in his bed, the warmth of his bare skin close against her own. And he was pressing a trail of light kisses over the contours of her face. Across her brow—against her eyelids, softly. Along her cheekbone, and her jawline. His breath flowed over her—faltering and tremulous and warm.

And she had her hands in his hair—let them drift through it and fall slowly to the nape of his neck. And she drew him forward, and caught his lips. Kissed him. And he stroked one hand over her cheek—his fingers trailing along the side of her throat, lightly, and across her collar bone.

He was shy with her, and very, very gentle.

And somehow, despite his considerable physical strength—despite the callous shell he showed to the world—that didn't surprise her at all.

* * *

And later that first night, they had somehow rolled over and she was on top of him, gripping his shoulders with both hands. And she collapsed against him, breathing hard, pressing her forehead against the side of his cheek. And his hand rested on the curve of her waist. He held her, there.

They lay there like that a long time, until Daryl broke the silence. He spoke slowly and deliberately—very quietly, up into the ceiling above them.

"It's you and me," he whispered.

It was the second time he'd said that to her, now. She remembered him saying it in the church bell tower, smacking her on the arm with that rough kind of camaraderie he had.

And Carol knew he just didn't have the sorts of words women wanted to hear. They weren't a part of his language. That phrase was something he must have said to Merle, before. Or the other way around. Or maybe it was something from Rick, now that they'd gotten so close with each other.

But no matter where the words came from, she fully understood what he meant by them.

So she laid a hand on his chest, then, and pressed closer against his side.

"You and me," she whispered back to him, in return.

* * *

Carol spent the next week in much the same way as those that came before—working in the house, tending to Lori, and watching over Carl. And whenever she had a spare moment, she'd return to the journals, and the mystery they held.

And yet something was different. _She_ was different. It wasn't about Daryl, really—though she could tell he was sensing it, too. It was something else. Something from inside—something she didn't have a name for. Something long since buried that had started to shift and grow and move.

And as she read Rosalie's journals, she became more and more aware of that change. How much less she related to Rose's feelings. Carol read the entries, and sometimes she just couldn't _understand_ them. Why Rose did what she did—or failed to do.

Even Rose's phrasing—her language—it was all getting vague. Opaque. Far away. She never spoke about her troubles directly—she always came in from the side. Rose was moving through winding paths, and Carol had trouble finding a way to follow her.

The closer Rose came to the end of that last December, the less substantial she became. She was growing indistinct. Fading. And it seemed to Carol that she didn't really disappear on one day, alone—in one moment of time. She vanished in stages, really. Every day, she wasted a little more.

And so Rose slowly disappeared, and Carol became real.

* * *

_12/14/80_

_Being with Daryl's all I've got. I watch him, a lot of the time. I don't know if he always sees me._

_There's something so quietly thoughtful about him. He learns so fast. Takes everything in. It's fascinating to watch—how he's growing._

_But it makes me think of what's going to happen. Don't got so much time left. Six months or so. Half a year._

_People are going to start noticing real soon. I'll have to tell Edgar. _

_I'll have to tell Merle, too. _

_I'm starting to think that I can't do this again. I'm starting to think this place isn't so safe that I can bring someone new into it. _

_So this can't happen. Shouldn't happen. But really, what kind of choice do I got?_

* * *

A week passed by, and then part of another. Once more Rick and Carol and Daryl sat at the kitchen table, reviewing everything they'd found.

Carol hadn't discovered much of anything new since they'd last sat together. She was getting frustrated with how little she'd learned.

"I've gone over pretty much everything in the entire set of journals," she said, looking down at the mass of papers scattered everywhere. She picked some up. Flipped through them, absently, while she spoke.

"I read the entries over and over again—but she just talks around things in circles. Almost never says exactly what she's thinking."

She sighed. Dropped some notes on the table, and they scattered.

"There aren't any answers in those books. Just more questions."

Rick nodded.

"You're running out of options."

"Well… I _did_ discover something."

She hesitated a moment. Looked to Daryl.

"Rose was pregnant when she vanished. And that… it seemed to be really tearing her up inside."

Daryl didn't really react. Was looking into the papers on the table. It was Rick who spoke up.

"Women are more likely to be murdered when they're pregnant than at any other time… It's when they're most vulnerable."

Daryl let out a breath.

"It still don't tell us _shit_," he said, "We don't got nothin' and we've been at it for weeks."

"The way I see it, that's not surprising," Rick said, "It was so long ago, after all."

And Rick got up from his chair, and came right to Carol's side.

"It might be time to put it to bed."

"But Rick—don't you have _anything_ that'll help? You've _got_ to have some ideas."

She let out a frustrated sigh.

"You were a _police officer_…"

She could hear the disappointment in her own voice. He was just letting her down all over again.

"Carol, look—it's not like I was a detective. We never investigated _anything_ like this. That day I got shot was pretty much the most serious crime I'd ever been involved with—and I was the victim.

It struck Carol that Rick sounded a bit exasperated with her.

"I mean, I saw my share of domestics and drunk and disorderlies and traffic violations—things like _that_. A couple drug busts that went pretty smoothly. But nothing like a murder. The only unsolved murder in King County went down right before I got the job. Don't think I'd have been assigned to do anything with that kind of investigation if I _had_ been around for it."

Rick shook his head, again.

"Look… your problem's that you're working from documents. They can't answer specific questions. They just are what they are, regardless of what you want them to be. If there was someone who was there at the time-someone who might know something—someone you could _find_, and talk to… that might really be the only way."

"A witness," Carol said, looking up slowly—as if the idea had dawned on her for the first time.

"Think through the journals," Rick said, "Is anyone mentioned who might have stuck around the area? Anyone who might know something?"

"Maybe some relatives?" Carol asked, looking to Daryl. He shrugged.

"Never were very many. Not who really _talked_ to each other, anyway."

"And most of 'em—I wouldn't want to take you 'round to them the way things were _before_. The way things are now… it'd be a good way to get ourselves killed."

"Those folks'd shoot us soon as _look_ at us, I'd guess—before they even realized who we were."

He got up. Started pacing. Thinking it through.

"There's Sarah. My daddy's sister. Maybe her… but I have no idea what happened to her. I barely even remember her—they stopped talking to each other when I was real little."

"Rose mentions a Sarah in the journals a lot," Carol said, "They seemed close. She used to take you to stay with her, sometimes. It seemed like something she and Edgar would fight over."

"We used to spend some time there some summers—after our mama was gone. For a few years, anyway. Then, what with our daddy the way he was… we lost track of her."

"Do you know where she lived? Maybe there's something there—maybe _she's _still there. We could talk to her."

He just looked at her. Clearly, it seemed like a long shot to him. She filled the silence.

"I mean… it's possible, right?"

"It's one town over. I know where it is—but I don't even know if she was still living there _before_ the shit went down."

"Let's try it."

"Carol, I dunno if there's much point in—"

She laid her hand on his arm and he stopped mid-sentence.

"_Please._ We can't give up."

Carol looked right at him—leaned in close, and she could tell that he was completely powerless to say no.

* * *

_12/20/80_

_I took Daryl's books away. I think I knew something like this was going to happen._

_When I got them at the church sale it was just for the pictures. But I noticed it today—he was _reading_ them. Not real good—not cover to cover or nothing like that. But I saw it and I asked him about a few of the pages and he _knew_. He knew what most of the words were. Could sound them out. And he could work out the simpler sentences._

_He's like his daddy—he notices everything._

_No one taught him to read—not on purpose, anyway— but he figured it out—from watching me, I guess. I don't know. But somehow, some way, he put it together. I knew he was real smart, but this…_

_He's only three._

_It's going to be so bad for him. It's going to be terrible._

* * *

The next entry in the journal, after that, was nothing but scribbles—tight, concentric circles that completely coated the entire page.

* * *

The two of them headed out straight away, and Daryl enjoyed the ride. Carol was behind him on the bike, and the weather was noticeably warmer than it had been in weeks. The sun was out, and the ride was long enough that it gave him time to think.

Daryl hadn't been out on the bike for any length of time in weeks. It felt good.

The path took them well away from the forests and into the countryside—into the wide swaths of farmland that spanned on and on and on into the distance.

And finally, they found the hidden, rural road he was looking for—it was surrounded by the rolling fields, overgrown with weeds. Saw the little, one-level ranch tucked away behind a hill.

He parked the bike, and stood in front of it. It looked deserted. Nothing was moving—there were no cars in the driveway, and there was a realtor's sign on the lawn.

"She ain't here," he said, turning to Carol. She was looking at that "For Sale" sign, her arms folded around her body.

"Let's at least look around," she said.

So they went up the walk, and Daryl forced the door open. And the rotting smell rushed out from the open doorway—hit him in the face in a putrid wave.

His mind went blank with white panic. The place had to be _crammed_ full of dead.

And that didn't make _sense_—but already he could see some shapes on the far wall, moving—standing up from where they'd been lying on the floor—raising their arms—straining, as if they were trying to block the light flowing in from outside. Emaciated, slender bodies that must have been women, once. He couldn't see their faces in the shadows, but he knew their eyes were trained on him.

They'd be able to close with him in seconds.

He pushed Carol behind him and immediately raised his handgun, taking aim for the nearest skull.

And it was then he realized that none of the shapes were moving. They weren't attacking at all. They were just standing there—completely frozen.

They weren't walkers after all. These women were _alive_.

He barely managed to pull the shot—jerked the gun to the side—and the round went into the wall to the right of the girl.

She started screaming.

* * *

The girls in the house sank to the ground in front of them. They were crying. Carol could see them over Daryl's shoulder. And Daryl just stood there in the doorway, gun in hand.

"Oh my _God_," Carol said, pushing her way around Daryl through the doorway—immediately darting forward to the girls on the floor. She had to step over piles of trash to get to them. Other than the trash, some blankets, and some pillows, the room was empty. The house had been for sale, and there was no furniture.

She crouched on the ground in front of them.

"It's ok—it's ok… it's ok," she whispered, "We aren't going to hurt you. It's ok."

The girl closest to her—Carol could see something was wrong with her arm. Carol reached out for it, and the girl yanked it away. Let out a strangled sob.

"Honey, it's ok—_hush_."

Carol reached out again, gently, and the girl let her do it, this time.

"Show me…"

Carol breathed in, hard. There were sores on the poor girl's arm—a line of weeping abscesses all along the veins. And Carol could smell the infection, now that she was close.

She touched the girl's cheek. It was hollow and pale. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

"How long's it been since you ate something?"

The girl didn't answer. Just stared at her with those frightened eyes.

Carol turned to Daryl.

"They need help. We've _got_ to bring them back to Hershel."

Daryl started pacing the room, looking around as if his mind was working. As if he hadn't heard anything Carol had said. And he asked an apprehensive question.

"… who else _is here?"_

He turned on the girls then. Pushed them.

"Huh? _Who else?_ How many?"

"Two… two more," one of the girls stammered, nodding towards a closed door. Her face was white and terrified.

"Just two more… Timmy and Anna went out on a run… food… but they ain't back yet so… two more. In there."

The girl. She clutched at Carol's arms, and the two of them watched Daryl move away, across the room. And then the girl leaned in to Carol—whispered to her, looking up at her with her large, light-colored eyes.

"_Please_ don't hurt us…"

* * *

_12/21/80_

_Daryl. I love him. I love him. _

_It's so unfair._

* * *

Daryl turned the knob as silently as he could. Heard the latch click, and pushed the door open slowly. Stepped into the room. And he knew—he _knew_ what he was going to find in there. Was amazed, really, that Carol hadn't put it all together, yet.

He could hear her speaking gently to those poor girls—crouching beside where they were all huddled out on the living room floor. Telling them they'd be just fine, now. That she'd take care of them. She was distracted with that. Must have been why.

The late afternoon light filtered in, grey and dark, through the drawn shades.

There were some loose hypodermic needles on the floor. One broke beneath his boot as he stepped forward.

His throat was tight, and he kept one hand hovering over his .44, where he had it tucked into his belt.

There were two figures—naked and sprawled under some blankets on a bedroll. He could hear them breathing, but they didn't stir as he made his way inside. They were both out cold—out so deep that the gunshot hadn't roused them.

One was a dark-haired woman he didn't recognize.

The other one was Merle.


	12. Cage

_Please bear with me—the site is barraging me with technical difficulties in uploading this. If you're reading this, though, it means I have come out on top. Woman 1, Machine 0. So I really hope you're seeing this!_

_Chapter 12 for you all, today. I don't have much to report on this end—Chapter 13 is in the final editing stages, so hopefully this week will see a fast update. Check out my tumblr, under the name of "Praxid," to check out my sketches and general nerdy musings. Thank you and hopefully I'll be talking to you all again soon!_

* * *

_Cage:_

Daryl stood over his brother, where he was lying out on the floor, asleep. Merle was noticeably thinner. Still strong, yes, but his face… it was hollowed out. His hair was longer—a mess of greying, wiry curls. He looked older than he did before.

And then Daryl slipped away as quietly he could. Left Merle there, sleeping.

He needed to think.

He stepped out into the living room. Paced around on the floor. It was covered with trash and smelled real bad.

Carol was still with the girls in there. There were five of them. He looked them over more carefully than he had, before. The pale, drawn skin—the emaciated bodies. The hollow eyes. They were _addicts_, every one of them. He knew enough about that shit to see they were in deep.

Daryl's mind was reeling. He tried to sort it all out while Carol talked to those women on the floor. Their voices blended together in a blur while he worked through what was going on.

Clearly, Merle had settled into this house with some of his friends—people from that circle of addicts he ran with. People Daryl didn't know, and didn't want to know.

One of the girls had mentioned someone named Timmy—she'd said he was out on a supply run right now. Must have meant Timmy Tucker—Billy Tucker's younger brother. Billy had been one of Merle's best buddies—had been ever since they were just kids. And that lasted right up until the day the walkers came. That was the day Billy Tucker shot himself in the head.

So when Merle got separated from Daryl—lost his hand—he must've come home to roost. But their daddy's house was burned out, and he couldn't really stay there—clearly he'd tried to hole up in Daryl's bedroom, at least for a while. But that couldn't really be a long term arrangement. He had to find somewhere else—and he must've remembered this place. Remembered staying here when the two of them were kids. Out here in the farmland, you could see anything coming at you from a long way off. It was remote. And that made it relatively secure, all things considered.

So Merle gathered those old friends around him, and settled on in for the long haul. From the sheer volume of trash piled up on the floor, Daryl figured the group had been here at least a couple months, already.

Daryl looked over to where Carol was sitting on the floor, listening to those girls. They were telling her their names. She had one of them by both hands—just a little slip of a thing. Maybe seventeen years old. Pale, with strawberry blonde hair. She shyly whispered that her name was Joellen.

But he couldn't really focus on her. On what _any_ of them were saying, really—Merle was in the next room, and he needed to decide what to do about that.

Really, Daryl already knew what they had to do. They needed to get out of there—fast—before Merle woke up. If they moved quickly, they might just get out without his ever realizing they'd been there at all.

So he went to Carol, and tugged her up by the arm. Pulled her right out of the girl's hands.

"C'mon," he said, dragging her towards the door.

"We're leaving."

* * *

Before Carol knew what was happening, Daryl was pulling her through the living room, and away from the girls on the ground.

And Carol struggled with him.

"What are you _doing?"_

She started to pull away and Daryl just tugged her back again. Leaned in past her to where the girls were sitting on the floor.

"You _never saw us._ You hear me?"

He pushed in a little closer. Narrowed his eyes. The girls shrank against the wall.

"We weren't _never here_."

He let go of Carol's arm a moment, and really got close to their faces. Crouched over them.

"The two of us—we're just some fucking figments of your fucking imaginations."

And then he pulled his handgun. Didn't point it at them, but made sure they saw it.

"We _clear on this?"_

She didn't understand. He was _terrorizing_ the poor things. She called out to him—shocked.

"_Daryl!"_

He closed his eyes, then. Let out a hard sigh. As if saying his name had ruined something for him.

Then he regrouped.

"You didn't hear that—none of you. You won't say one word to nobody. Get it? Not _one word._ Or I'll come _after_ you, you hear me?"

Carol didn't have words. He just pulled her away as fast as he could. When they were outside, she yanked her arm from his grip, and spun around on him, furious.

"_God_, Daryl—what the _hell_ do you think you're—"

He stepped in close. Hissed the words at her, right in her face.

"_Trust me_."

And then he looked to the door, nervously—as if he thought something was about to happen.

Carol froze. The look on his face—they were in some kind of trouble he wasn't going to explain to her. So she nodded. Went with him to the bike, and they sped away.

When Daryl pulled up in front of the painted lady, he didn't say a word to her. Just left the bike there on the grass and went directly upstairs to the tower. Evicted T-Dog from watch duty, and paced around way up in there—above the rest of the house, all alone.

And Carol went out to the back yard—way out by the iron fence, beneath the oak trees. Sat there in the grass. Looking up to the house, she could see him in the windows of that tower, walking around in a circle.

* * *

From the observation tower, Daryl watched the light move across the sky. It was already getting dark when Rick went up to check on him.

Daryl glared at him. Knew he'd have to tell him everything—and sooner rather than later. And that just made him feel more trapped. He was like a rabbit in a snare. There weren't any options.

Rick didn't say anything at first. Just sat down in one of those chairs they'd been using on watch. Picked up the binoculars and played with the strap.

"Been talking to Carol," Rick said, at last. It was obvious she'd told him everything that happened.

Daryl couldn't stay still. Started pacing around in a circle again. And Rick spoke up again.

"So it was Merle in there, wasn't it?"

Daryl stared out into the trees. Was sure his face said it all.

And he knew he'd made a mistake. Slipping away from Merle—trying to keep him from knowing they'd been there. It wasn't going to work. Daryl had been thinking it over. They'd forced in the door. They'd left a gunshot in the _wall_. And those girls—there was no earthly way they were going to keep their mouths shut when it came down to it.

But Carol had been there. Merle would have seen her. And Daryl couldn't imagine letting that happen.

So he turned to Rick.

"I gotta go back there, don't I?"

Rick nodded.

"Seems to me that's the only way for us to get a sense of how this is going to go."

And he looked back at Daryl, calmly. He had this weird way of standing back from a problem Daryl couldn't entirely identify with.

"You need some backup?"

"No," Daryl said, "Last thing we need is to have him wake up and see _you_ standin' there."

"No—it's better I go it alone."

* * *

For the second time that day, Daryl slipped into his aunt's house. This time, he was alone.

And no one was in the living room. He heard voices down a hallway, and was careful to step silently through the trash on the floor. Made it to that back bedroom where Merle had been sleeping. He'd parked the bike down the road—so it'd be well out of earshot. No one knew he was there.

When he stepped inside, he looked around. That bedroom was mostly empty. There were piles of clothes. Some bags and boxes full of supplies. A bedroll where his brother was still lying out, fast asleep. He hadn't moved at all. Was still out cold next to that woman. And Daryl could hear him breathing.

It was strange to be so near him, again.

Daryl drifted to the far end of the room—to the window. Merle had a collection of Daryl's wood carvings there on the sill. He must have taken them with him from their daddy's house. And Daryl didn't know he _liked_ those things enough to do something like that—Merle _despised_ that particular hobby of his. He always made fun of him for wasting his time making little wooden toys.

But he'd taken them—the best ones. Kept them close.

Daryl reached out, touched one carving. A flower—one he'd carved a few years back. He'd chosen a fine, white cedar so it would perfume the air around it. It was a rose. A Cherokee rose.

One of them bloomed for Merle after all.

* * *

And well over a year before, Daryl was sitting out in the cab of his daddy's truck. He'd parked about fifteen minutes before, and hadn't gotten out of the thing yet. Just sat there, sipping his gas station coffee from the paper cup. Watched the clouds move around in the sky. Watched the cars move around the prison parking lot.

He'd put this off as long as he could. But he really had to do it. Merle had been inside for over six weeks, and Daryl _still_ hadn't come to see him.

So he dropped his paper cup back into the holder. Watched the yellowed air freshener dangling there on the rearview. That cardboard pine tree had been green, once—years ago, when their daddy was still alive.

It was going to be strange to see Merle—he knew it. Merle wasn't the type who belonged in a cage.

Daryl sighed. He didn't want to do this, but he had to.

He had to.

So he stepped out of his daddy's truck. Slammed the door shut behind him, and headed towards the visitor's entrance.

* * *

Merle was fast asleep on a bedroll in his aunt's house, sprawled out next to Jenny Wilkins. He was dreaming something indistinct about walkers, and gunfire, and blood.

And he felt a hand on his forehead. Then his cheek. It slapped him, gently, a few times.

"Merle."

And again. He shifted. Didn't want to wake. Tried to sink back under.

But that voice kept on coming.

"Merle."

Merle groaned. Made to roll over. That hand—it took him by the shoulder. And another hand joined it—a matching fucking set.

Someone rolled him onto his back. Leaned in close.

"C'mon, Merle. Wake up."

It was Daryl's voice. He'd know it anywhere. It was as if he was back home, and Daryl was trying to rouse him after one of those particularly wild benders. He'd always be there, those mornings—would get him out of bed no matter what—ready to help him into the shower and put everything in the house to rights.

And really, he felt like he was back there—that if he opened his eyes, he'd see Daryl hovering above him. And they'd be home and things would be back to fucking normal. None of this shit would have ever happened.

So Merle opened his eyes, and he _did_ see Daryl's face hovering over him. Just like he'd imagined. He squinted up at his brother.

"_Daryl…?_"

Daryl's lip tugged up, slightly—in that crooked approximation of a smile he had. And he was still holding Merle by the shoulders.

"You ok, Merle?"

Merle didn't answer. Turned his head. Jenny was still there, next to him. Still fast asleep. He wasn't back home. Nope. He was in the house. His aunt's house—_their_ aunt's house.

He turned back to Daryl. Raised his one hand and touched his brother's face. Ran his fingers along his cheek—felt the unshaved stubble. Felt the warmth of his skin.

Daryl was _here_.

Merle let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. And before he knew what he was doing he wrapped his arms around his brother. Buried his face in Daryl's shoulder.

"_God_, man… _Daryl_."

Merle tugged at him, hard—clinging tight against his body. Clutched at his brother's clothes with his one hand.

"Thank fucking Jesus fucking _Christ_…"

He let out a dry, strangled sob. And Daryl just held his shoulders, firmly, like he'd been doing.

"Things've been so fucking _bad_, brother…"

And Merle didn't realize it, but he'd started to cry.

"It's all just shit without you."

* * *

"Uhm."

Daryl stood at the front desk in the prison lobby. Tried to get the clerk's attention.

"Here for visitin' hours."

The man at the desk looked up, over his glasses. Normally, when Daryl went places—hospitals and offices and the like—he felt real awkward. Felt like everyone was _looking_ at him—at his unkempt hair and shabby clothes. People would give him these wary glances, and tended to try to avoid meeting his eyes.

But not this guy. The desk man at the prison was clearly used to people like him. Didn't bat an eye.

"You send back the visitor questionnaire? All the signatures on it?"

Daryl nodded, and the man nodded back. He had a name tag. Mitch. Mitch looked down at his computer screen a moment, and back at Daryl.

"Inmate?"

"Merle Dixon."

"Your name?"

"Daryl."

Mitch stared at him.

"Uhm. Dixon."

"ID?"

He rummaged for his wallet.

Mitch typed something into his keyboard. He was checking the visitor manifest—the list of people the inmates had given permission to visit them. He needed to make sure Merle had approved him for visitation.

"Well look at that," Mitch said, shaking his head at his monitor.

"Only name he's got down on the list."

* * *

Daryl sat with Merle on the floor—under the window. All his carvings were on the sill, right above their heads.

Merle had his chin resting on his knees. He was stark naked. It'd taken Daryl a while to get him up from that bedroll—to get him to calm down enough to just sit and gather his thoughts.

He had never seen Merle so damned _emotional_. And Daryl wondered if Merle knew their aunt's house was empty when he first came here—or if he'd actually gone looking for Aunt Sarah. Maybe he'd wanted to find a relative. Someone he was connected to.

There was a lull. Neither of them were talking. They were just sitting together, in the dark, getting used to being side by side again.

Eventually, Merle broke the silence.

"I only got one hand now."

He said it casually—it just was a matter of fact. And he lifted his arms—showed Daryl. One hand. One stump, wrapped up in a cloth. And Daryl nodded to him.

"I know."

Merle looked down at his arms. Held up his one hand in front of his face. Moved his fingers around in the air.

"Just the one…"

He trailed off, then started up again.

"_Left_ one."

Seemed to think it was important to be precise.

And something was twisting in Daryl's chest, then. It was real hard for him to look at that stump.

"Yeah, man," he said, "The left one."

And Daryl got up—rooted around for something Merle could wear. He was sitting there completely naked on the floor, and there was a chill coming in from the window.

"Here, Merle."

Daryl had a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans in one hand. The cleanest he could find strewn around in the dark. He sniffed at them to make sure. And then he knelt down next to his brother. Laid a hand on his arm.

"C'mon, Merle—put this stuff on. It's cold."

Daryl's voice was quiet—almost tender. The words just fell out of his mouth that way. And Merle responded to that. Looked up to him, expressively.

"How the hell did you know where to _find_ me?"

Daryl had no idea what to say to that. Couldn't think of any way he could tell his brother that he hadn't been looking for him. That running across him had been a complete and total accident.

And Merle just kept looking at him.

"Should've known you'd come."

Daryl's stomach started knotting up. He felt sick.

And there was a noise behind them. The girl. She was awake.

She was awake, and Daryl was relieved she'd chosen that moment to get to it.

She sat up, and the sheets fell off her as she leaned over for something on the ground. Picked up a .38 handgun, and pointed it at Daryl.

"Who the _fuck_ are you?"

* * *

The guards searched Daryl before they let him into the visitation room. He was tense the whole time. Deeply uncomfortable with those people's hands all over him.

And the doors buzzed opened, and they led him down the hall, and he was right in front of the visitation area. He could see the back of Merle's head through the window in the door. He'd taken to shaving his hair lately—tried to keep those wild curls of his under control that way.

He was right there, sitting at a table. Daryl hadn't seen him in what seemed like ages.

And Daryl went in. Sat down with him. Some others were in the background, at other tables. Talking to their own relatives, quietly.

Merle was doodling on a piece of notebook paper. Intricate, abstract patterns that looked a little like wings.

Merle was always pretty good at that stuff—drawing. Would have been _really_ good at it if he'd taken any real interest. He'd designed some of Daryl's tattoos—the ones on his back.

It struck Daryl funny, then. Merle's ideas. They were literally written all over him. Pierced in deep, under the skin.

And Merle looked up from his drawing, once, and nodded. They didn't really say anything, right away. Daryl just sat at his brother's side. Took in his presence next to him.

He just settled in. Leaned against the table. Watched Merle's hand glide effortlessly across the paper.

* * *

The girl had that gun trained on Daryl, and they stared at each other.

Getting a better look at her, Daryl realized she seemed familiar. And he realized she wasn't just a kid, either—was at least in her late thirties. And he'd seen her somewhere before—he was sure of it.

Merle spoke up. He was buttoning his shirt. Seemed pretty good at doing it one-handed, by this point.

"Jenny, stand the fuck down. It's fine."

And that did it. Daryl placed her.

"Wait—Jenny? Jenny Wilkins?"

That was it. She was one of Merle's many, many girlfriends. One of the very few Merle really kept going back to, on and off over the years. Usually, he stuck with the really young ones. Found them easier to deal with. And he dropped them on a regular basis for a new batch.

Merle wasn't really one for a challenge.

But Jenny—Daryl always got a sense that Merle _liked_ Jenny. Not a lot, maybe—not really under the surface. But he enjoyed her company more than most women.

All things considered, it wasn't really a ringing endorsement.

Daryl hadn't seen her in a few years. She and Merle were in one of those off-again periods before the shit with the walkers went down. Clearly, that had changed since Merle had been back home.

Jenny lowered the .38. Raised a flashlight and pointed it directly at Daryl's face—blinding him completely. Must've been looking him over.

"Well shit," she said, "That your kid _brother?"_

She put the flashlight down again, and stood up. Completely naked, and utterly unconcerned about it. Gestured to the air while she hunted around for her clothes.

"What is it… uh, Daryl?"

She found a t-shirt, and pulled it over her shoulders. Chuckled to herself.

"Man. Well ain't that nice to fucking see."

She found one of Merle's shirts and threw it on. Tied it in a knot at her waist while poking at a pile of clothes with one foot.

"Fucking heartwarming."

She found a pair of jeans, and threw them on. Padded right by Daryl on her bare feet. Shrugged.

"I'll leave you to your family reunion, I guess."

She tucked Merle's .38 into her belt as she went out.

"Kid brother. Who knew."

And she kept talking as the door closed behind her.

"_I_ had a kid brother—but he got ate."

* * *

The winter light glared through the narrow, prison windows, and onto the linoleum table. And Daryl and Merle**—**they didn't know what to say to each other. Finally, Daryl asked Merle something—the only thing he was really concerned with.

"You ok, Merle?"

Merle just shrugged. But he couldn't fool Daryl. He was feeling it.

Merle didn't belong in a cage.

And after that, they just sat together until the time was up. It left Daryl feeling exhausted. And even so, it was hard to leave Merle in there when it was time to go.

And when he made it back to the car, Daryl just folded his arms over the steering wheel and laid his head down. Closed his eyes, and tried to push the whole experience down deep, where he wouldn't have to think about it again.

* * *

When they were alone, Merle started talking about what had happened to him. Told him about that day on the roof. How it went down. What it was like. Most of it, he had already figured out on his own—after all, he'd found Merle's hand lying there. It wasn't exactly news to him.

But then, almost as an afterthought, he threw something in Daryl never expected.

"I saw you lookin' for me."

Daryl didn't entirely understand what he meant by that. And Merle explained.

"In the city. After—_after_ the hand. I was sittin' there near a window and I look up and you're right there on the sidewalk. Just on the other side of that goddamn glass."

"_What?"_

"Didn't think it was really you, at first. Thought it was—you know—blood loss. Messes with your head."

"But it _was_ you."

"Why the hell didn't you _say_ somethin'?"

"You were with those assholes. Thought you were stayin' with the assholes. Didn't get it."

Merle shrugged.

"Don't matter. It's ok now."

Then he smiled at Daryl. Touched his shoulder, again.

"We can set you up easy, here. There's an empty room right across from Timmy's. And I'm sure some of the girls'll take to you pretty fast."

Offering him some half-starved, terrified women was Merle's concept of being hospitable. And Daryl's face must have betrayed him, because Merle's eyes narrowed.

"That not good enough for you, little brother?"

"Merle…"

He trailed off.

"_What_, Daryl? Fucking _out_ with it."

"Merle..."

"You gonna _leave?"_

He couldn't say anything. Just kept stammering Merle's name every time he started a sentence. Had no idea what he would say if he tried.

"Tell me, bro—what you been_ up to_ you gotten too fucking good for Merle?"

"Merle…"

"No, ain't just now. You _always_ been too fucking good. Fucking perfect fucking _Daryl_."

It seemed out of left field. Daryl hadn't ever imagined anyone describing him quite that way. And he just said his brother's name again.

"Merle…"

"What, can't say nothin' but my fucking _name?"_

He gestured to the air with his one hand. Let out an exasperated breath.

"We got everythin' you fucking need, man. It's pretty safe out here—haven't barely seen no walkers since we came. Just on the supply runs. We got guns. We got the girls."

It was too much. Daryl felt himself getting angry about that. And the words starting coming, then.

"Yeah, and where you _find_ all them girls, anyway? Round 'em up on the street or what? Hit 'em over the head and drag 'em here by the hair?"

"Hey," Merle said, "Jenny can handle herself."

"What about the _rest_ of 'em?"

"Them? They'd be _dead_ if we hadn't found 'em—and they know_ it."_

And Daryl took Merle's bad arm, then—pulled it forward. He could see the track marks. He'd been using hard, again. They'd got him clean when they were running from the walkers. It had been hell, but they'd done it. And he'd just thrown it away again.

"And what's with all this shit, Merle? _Huh? _Don't you remember what it was like when we were runnin' and your stash went dry? The withdrawal _and_ the walkers, all at once? We go through all that for _nothin'_, Merle?"

Merle leaned back. Looked him over.

"You sure developed a lot of fucking _opinions_ since I last saw you."

Daryl sighed. Felt tired. Felt as tired as he had in that prison parking lot, after that visit. It seemed like that happened a lifetime ago.

And he found himself thinking of Carol, then. Found himself longing for her soft voice. Her quiet presence. It was so easy to be near her.

It was nothing like this.

"Look… Merle. I can't stay here with you. I _can't. _But maybe… maybe if I talk to 'em all first, I can get everyone to agree to let _you_ come back."

And the look on Merle's face. He hadn't understood that Daryl was still with the group from the quarry. He looked up at him with hard eyes.

"… _back_?"

Merle shoved him, one-handed. The strength of it surprised Daryl, and it knocked him backwards, onto the bedroom floor.

"Merle—"

"Get out."

He moved to speak again, and Merle pushed him towards the door. His eyes were fiery. Electric.

"Get the _fuck_ out."

* * *

Long after everyone else went to bed, Carol lingered at the foot of stairs, waiting for Daryl to come back.

She sat with her flashlight, thumbing through Rosalie's last journal. She couldn't concentrate. The words just didn't rivet her like they had before.

And she had things on her mind. There was only one explanation for how Daryl was acting. Merle had been in that house. Merle was there, and it had shaken Daryl down deep.

And he'd left again—gone off to see his brother. Wasn't back yet. So she waited for him, and read through the diary, on and off—skimming the entries she'd read so many times before.

She didn't know it, but it was the last time she'd sit with that book. She wouldn't read it again.

Really, she'd moved through Rosalie's entries and past them—knew them almost by heart. Knew Rose as well as she _could_ know her. If Carol could only solve the puzzle, she would be able to leave Rose at rest. Let it go. But she _had_ to know. She had to see it. She _had_ to find the answer.

So she flipped through the pages, one last time. Thinking of Merle, Carol settled on one passage she'd read a few times before, but hadn't really thought much about:

_12/18/80_

_Merle. God, Merle. Merle with his beautiful face and his bright blue eyes. _

_He was at the foot of the stairs, just sitting there, looking into the living room with his chin on his hands. I could see him from up above—from my bedroom door—and I don't think he knew I was there._

_I don't know what he was thinking about, but he was so still. So quiet. It made me really wonder._

_And with him like that… I wanted to take him in my arms. Felt the old pull from when he was just a baby. I wanted to do it so bad. Like a magnet just drawing me in. I could have just pulled him close and buried my face in his hair and told him—something. I don't even know what._

_But I know he wouldn't let me if I tried. Might even try to knock me down. Time goes fast._

_It's just too late._

* * *

Carol heard the latch turning, and she rose up from where she'd been sitting on the stairs. And Daryl was in the door, framed against the night darkness outside.

"How is he?" she asked. Knew Daryl would understand what she was talking about. He looked right at her.

"Different."

Then he shook his head.

"No—not different."

He seemed frustrated. Like he didn't have the right words.

"Same as ever."

"It looked real bad in there," she said, burrowing further into her sweater—against the chill from the open door. She was thinking of his brother's safehouse.

"It was like… like they'd all just given up on being—I dunno—_people_…"

He nodded. Got quiet. And Carol leaned a hand on one of those newel posts with the carved faces.

"Are we going to be safe, Daryl?"

He didn't say anything. Seemed lost in thought. But she needed to him to answer her.

"Are we going to be _safe?"_

And Daryl came up to her, then. Moved in close, and took the sides of her face in both hands.

"You're gonna be safe," he whispered to her. Pressed his forehead against hers. Breathed in, hard, and looked her right in the eyes.

And he said it again, very softly.

"You're gonna be safe."

And then he let her go. Passed her by on the staircase, and headed up into the darkness.


	13. Jenny

_We're heading into some dark territory for the duration, my friends. I want to give a clear warning: this chapter involves violence. Violence against animals, against women and children, and against walkers to boot (just in case anyone minds about them). So really, just be aware of this as we move forward in general from here on out.  
_

_This chapter was inspired wholesale by a piece of music recommended to me by the lovely and talented Designation. It's a remix of two lovely pieces—look up "This Bitter Earth / On the Nature of Daylight" to hear it. Then go check out her profile on here, and read her wonderful Walking Dead fics._

_And this—this is probably my favorite chapter of the story so far. I'm not sure what that says about me. But it was crafted with love._

* * *

_Jenny:_

Ever since he could remember, Merle had been frightened.

Frightened of his father. What he would do next. Frightened of his mother. Of her silence—of her timid, empty presence in his daddy's house. Frightened—not _of_ Daryl—but _about_ him. Frightened that Daryl would leave him in the dust, someday—because Merle knew that Daryl was just too damned _good_ for the life they'd been living at home.

But most of all, Merle was frightened that people would see him for what he really was. That they would see how little was really there inside his head. See the blank void under his skin, and know he had nothing—that he _was_ nothing.

And Merle struggled—strained and strove and fought to find ways to hide from that dull nothingness inside. He was thirteen when his daddy started sharing the drugs with him, and he took to them right away. It was the best way he'd ever found to do it—the fastest way to escape from the void. To forget it was there.

That first time, Daddy held out some sort of pills for him—offering them to him with one of those unreadable smiles on his face. Those smiles never went all the way up to his eyes. And Merle hesitated. Wasn't sure about the whole prospect. Didn't even know what those pills _were_.

It seemed dangerous.

"C'mon," Daddy said.

And his daddy tilted his head to the side. Smirked.

"Be a man, Merle."

That's all it took. All it _ever_ took—those four words were like a millstone around Merle's neck. His daddy would say them over and over again, whenever he was trying to push Merle around. And it worked every single time.

Daddy could get him to do just about anything, that way. And Merle was a willing fucking puppet, because he didn't have anything else to be.

So he swallowed all of those pills in one go. Clung tight to those strings, and let his daddy make him dance.

* * *

Merle pushed his way through the forest. He was looking for Daryl.

Merle knew that there were only so many places in town that he'd be able to hide with such a big group of people. He was going to try that old mansion on the hill, first. Was going to loop around back, through the woods, and check the place out.

If _he_ were Daryl, that's where he'd take those quarry assholes.

Of course, Merle didn't know how many assholes there were left. He set a herd of walkers on them, way back when he lost his hand—that very night. Let them tear their way through the quarry camp. Got his revenge that way—let the walkers do the killing for him. And Merle didn't know how many had died—didn't stick around to do a body count. Didn't really think he owed them even _that_ much, after what they did to him.

They took his hand—they took his _brother_. So the precise number of dead was beyond fucking immaterial to Merle.

And after that, Merle had found himself alone—alone in a world full of walkers with no real idea of what he should do. So he'd gone back home. There was nowhere else to go, really. And he met up with Timmy and the rest, and settled on in for the long haul.

And he and Timmy—they'd used that same trick again with the walkers just a few months ago. Set a whole herd on another group in town. They'd done it when they realized that other group had a pretty impressive stash of drugs.

It was easy. And the walkers were easy to draw out and plow down when it was over.

And he remembered one thing that struck him funny, at the time. He and Timmy were firing into the crowds from behind a truck, and Merle saw a living man get caught in the spray of bullets. A straggler the walkers hadn't killed, trying to run. He got shot in the chest, and fell. And later on, Merle could have _sworn_ he saw that guy rise up from the pavement. He hadn't been bit, but he was a walker _anyway_.

But he shrugged it off, at the time—the guy _must've_ been bit, Merle figured. Just didn't see it happen.

When the shit goes down, you don't always notice everything.

And the upshot was that they got to keep everything in that storehouse. It was a treasure trove. That stash could easily last them the better part of a year.

* * *

An hour later, Merle was hiding in the brush behind the painted lady, a little ways from the iron fence. He'd found them. It'd been easy to do—there weren't many places Daryl could have led them, really, and this had been the very first on Merle's list.

And as if they wanted to make it even easier for him, most of the group were out in the back yard, playing some sort of game with a football. Merle wasn't sure what sort of rules it had. It was something like flag football, but the teams only had three people each. They might have made the thing up themselves.

There was a girl he didn't recognize—real young and cute and athletic. Had short, darkish-colored hair. It was that girl, that asshole T-Dog, and that snot-nosed kid Carl on one team. Daryl was with fucking Glenn and Rick on the other.

That short-haired girl whipped past Glenn, and managed to grab the flag from his belt. Pointed a finger at him.

"In your _face_, little man!"

And Glenn just smiled, and scooped her up. Threw her over his shoulder. Spun her around. She was laughing, then—that flag still clutched in one hand.

"Hey! _Hey!_ I am _not a flag!"_

And the others were still throwing the ball. Rick passed it to Daryl, and he took off running. And T-Dog came up from the side, and somehow tripped Daryl on his way in. Daryl landed on the grass. And Daryl—Daryl actually laughed out loud, at that.

"Watch out, man," Glenn said to T-Dog, putting down that girl, again. And she started hanging on his arm.

"He'll go all crazy, backwoods Legolas on you."

T-Dog helped Daryl up with one hand, and Daryl looked around at everyone—a little quizzically.

"What the fuck is a _Legolas_?"

And that asshole T-Dog shook his head.

"Don't look it up or you'll kill him."

And then it seemed like whatever game it'd been was over. They were all just standing there, talking. And Rick—_Rick_—he made some joke about something Merle didn't understand. Something about adding Glenn's ears to the set. Then he slapped Daryl on the back and headed back into the house.

And Daryl—Daryl picked up that little kid—Carl. Grunted. Pretended the kid was a lot heavier than he really was. And Daryl said he was getting way too big, then.

Merle used to do that with Daryl sometimes, when _he_ was real little.

And then Daryl put Carl down. Let him run into the house. And he paused. Looked around the yard. Scanned the woods beyond the fence. Stared into the underbrush, as if he'd sensed something out there.

Merle stayed low on the ground until Daryl turned away.

* * *

Merle wasn't sure if he'd ever really loved his mother—he didn't really_ know_ her. But he'd always, always wanted her. Tried and tried to get her attention for years—and every time, she just faded further away.

He was ten years old, and he was angry. So angry he was sobbing. He didn't really know what he was angry _at_. Couldn't begin to understand the forces that were tearing at him. He only knew he had to hide—curl up somewhere like a wounded dog. So he went out into the tall grass, where no one would see him.

Except someone _did_ see him. Mama. He saw her standing there in the tall grass, looking at him with a sort of blank fear on her face.

And Merle knew, then, that she knew—she _knew_ what he was really like. She could see that empty hole he tried so hard to hide.

So he screamed at her. Threw the stones at her as hard as he could. And the whole time, he kind of hoped she'd fight her way through that barrage, and come to him.

But she ran away. All the way up to her bedroom. When he went inside, he could hear her moving around up there. And he knew better than to expect her to come down to check on him.

She stayed up there for hours, drifting around like a ghost.

* * *

At the painted lady, there was a slender woman leaning over the porch railing. She had short, grey hair. Merle recognized her from the quarry, but wasn't sure if he'd ever caught her name.

Really, she wasn't the sort of person Merle would have particularly noticed.

And she smiled—smiled at Daryl as he headed across the lawn. Said something to him that Merle couldn't hear. Walked down the steps and met him on the grass.

And Merle looked on with dull shock as she reached out and touched Daryl's face. Wiped off some dirt or something. And Daryl let her as if it was perfectly normal for her to do it—and no one _else_ seemed to bat an eye, either.

And then Daryl put a hand on her arm as he turned—stroked it lightly, and stepped away to go up the porch stairs and into the house. That wasn't a gesture Merle thought Daryl had in his vocabulary. And it was casual—like he'd done it without thinking.

This was Daryl's life, now. And Merle was left hiding in some fucking bushes, watching it from a distance.

* * *

Some thirty years earlier, Merle was watching his mama put on Daryl's coat for him. It was a gorgeous day—way too sunny and clear and nice for first day in December. Too nice to stay inside.

So she was taking Daryl out in the woods for a walk.

And Merle watched from the door of his bedroom. She didn't look at him. Not once. Just took Daryl by the hand and led him away.

* * *

Merle looped back through the woods to where he'd stashed his car. Drove on out of there, thinking over what he'd seen.

He felt sick. Humiliated to have hidden there in the dirt like that, watching those assholes play their stupid little game. He still had some leaves stuck to his clothes.

When he made it back to his aunt's house, Merle could see Jenny and Joellen way out in the tall grass. They were walking together, through the fields. Those fields were so wide open you could see just about everything for miles and miles.

On a whim, he turned the wheel, and headed out on the country road to meet them. Pulled over alongside, and went into the grass. Watched the two of them wandering the winter fields from a distance.

The girls were talking about something or other, together, silhouetted against the sky. They ended up lingering by the largest tree on the property—a grand old oak, standing out all by its lonesome on the swell of the hill. Right where you could see the furthest out over the farmland. The sunset was just hinting at the corners of the sky, now. The hazy glow caught at the bare branches of that tree, and the ground around it.

And Merle was drawn there. His nerves were raw, and the girls were still and quiet. He wanted them to calm him down. So he walked out into the golden light. Squinted against it as he pushed through the grass.

Joellen had a little sprig of chicory in her hand. The pale, blue flowers had dried on the stalk, standing out in the winter fields. And he thought the two girls looked pretty together, out in the tall grass with the wind in their hair.

He came up to them. Stood at their side. Hoped they'd calm the angry red tension underneath his skin.

But when Jenny spoke to him, it only made that feeling worse.

"You find your brother?" Jenny asked. Didn't even say hello. There wasn't an ounce of bullshit in Jenny.

Usually, he was drawn to that—to that hardness she had. Had been for years and years. He couldn't really say he'd ever loved her—just like his mama—but he _liked_ her.

And there weren't many people Merle liked. He could probably count them on one hand. Since he only _had_ one hand, that was pretty damned convenient.

Merle nodded to her, once. Yes, he'd found his brother. He felt his throat tighten, thinking about it. Didn't want to hear any more fucking questions—especially about Daryl. But she just kept on in at him.

"They gonna leave us be? His people?"

And she was thinking forward, like she always did. Tough-as-fucking-nails Jenny.

But he gave her a look, then. Didn't want to hear it. And Jenny knew him real well—knew him since they were both just kids—so she shut up fast.

But Joellen. Joellen was just a kid _now_, and she didn't know him like Jenny did. And Merle figured she must have been curious—so she started pressing him.

"How'd you two get split up like this, anyway? You and your brother?"

He didn't say anything. She just kept on talking and talking, and Merle looked out over the grass and ignored her fucking _chatter_—until she asked something that peaked his interest.

"And who was that _woman? _She from around here?"

He turned on her. Stepped closer.

"What woman?"

"The one with your brother."

Merle looked at her. She started getting a little flustered. Anxious. Tried to explain.

"I dunno… she was a little older? I thought she was kind of pretty… and really nice."

Jenny touched Joellen's arm, then. Tried to quiet her.

"_Jo…_"

But Jo just kept on going. She was the type who talked when she got nervous.

"She said she wanted to take me with her... and she didn't like it when your brother was all after us like he was."

"_What?"_

"He really got in our faces. It was scary."

"And what, precisely, did he get in your face _about?"_

Merle stepped in closer. Got in her face, himself. And she realized it, then—she was in too deep. He could see it in her eyes. The fear. Her gaze was darting around like she was caught in a trap, and there was no way out.

She didn't say anything. Looked at him, pale and silent and desperate. And he pushed in, nose to nose.

"_Tell me_, Jo."

"About… about not sayin' nothin' about them comin' here… Didn't want us to know his name. Said the two of them were just figments of our imagination…"

Merle saw her land on the ground before he realized he'd hit her.

Her hair scattered on her shoulders. He heard a noise floating around in the air, and realized she'd started crying.

* * *

One day when Daryl was three, Merle went looking all around the house for him. Found him playing with his dogs in the backyard—throwing the ball around. No particular game. Just for fun.

And Merle wanted him to come inside the house. Didn't want Daryl to play with the dogs. Wanted Daryl to play with _him_.

"Hey, Daryl!"

Daryl didn't hear him. Was distracted with the dogs—and they were always desperate for any attention Daryl would give them. Would have stayed at his side _constantly_ if they could.

Merle hated that. It was fucking pathetic.

And after that, it all went like it always did.

"Come _here."_

"Come _here_, you little _shit."_

And he threw the first thing he could find. A rock on the ground. Part of the old, fieldstone foundation of the house. That old foundation was loose and old and crumbling at the edges. It was one of the smallest stones—but Merle didn't know. He didn't check. He just grabbed something and threw it right at Daryl as hard as he could.

And it landed on his back. Left an angry bruise that lasted a good long time. But Daryl barely cried out when it hit him. Just looked up, and saw Merle there. And his eyes. Even at three, Merle could see it. Daryl didn't look angry. He looked sad.

And Daryl walked across the grass. Resigned himself to giving Merle what he wanted. Just came up to Merle and went back into the house with him.

And as they came in, Merle kicked one of those dogs. Didn't even catch which one it was. He just kicked at it. Knocked it right off the back stairs of his daddy's house.

* * *

Joellen was crying in the grass, out in the field. The shadows of the oak branches made patterns on her clothes.

And things got distant, for Merle. It was like he couldn't _stop_. Like he wasn't in control of his body.

He was kicking at Joellen with his boots. Hard. And soon, he could feel things breaking under the blows—under her skin—under the pale flesh.

She was little, and frail. Her bones shattered easy. Like birds' bones. Like baby birds.

Jenny was screaming something at him. Screaming his name. He could barely hear her. Everything seemed far away. And Jenny came right at him, then—tried to fight him off. Got in a good right hook before he could react. But she was just a goddamned _woman_—didn't have half his strength. Her strike left a little red mark on his jaw, but he didn't lose his footing.

"_Merle! Stop!"_

Jenny's voice echoed on the quiet hills. On the tall grass at their backs.

"Stop! _For fuck's sake Merle, stop! Stop!"_

Jenny was on his back then, tugging at him—trying to pull his handgun out of its holster. He'd forgotten he even _had_ that weapon. And she wanted to get it—wanted to use it on him.

He threw her, and she landed hard against the side of the oak tree. The force knocked the wind out of her. She let out a strangled groan.

And Jo—she was lying there below him on the ground. She wasn't crying, anymore. A trickle of blood ran out from her mouth and down the side of her face. He kicked at her one last time—hard, in the spine. Heard a crunch.

Jo spasmed on the ground, a moment, and then she was still.

Jenny was pushing herself up on her hands. Whispered something.

"_Stop…"_

And she leaned over Joellen, then. Dragged herself over as she regained her breath. Touched the girl's face. Checked her pulse. Looked up at him from the ground. From the foot of that fine, old oak.

"She's dead_."_

* * *

When Merle was five years old, he spent a long Saturday afternoon tearing out every page of his mama's Bible. He scattered them all over her bedroom like autumn leaves. The paper was thin and it tore easily. Made a satisfying sound each time.

He'd just nearly finished on the book of Revelation when she came in her bedroom door. Saw him there, and gasped.

But still, she didn't _do_ anything. Didn't get mad. Didn't ask why. Not her.

She just started picking the pages up again. He could still see her in his mind, long decades later. Her long, lovely hair falling over her face. The hem of her dress pooling on the floor, where she was kneeling. The little lace edging on it. The calico print with the little, blue flowers.

She gathered up the pages, smoothed them out with her hands, and started putting them in a pile on her bed.

* * *

Merle listened to Jenny saying something to him. Her voice sounded far away in his ears.

She was telling him that Jo was dead.

He looked up at the branches of the oak tree, hanging there above the three of them. That tree had to be a hundred years old, at least. It had seen a lot of winters over that span of time.

And Jenny just kept on talking.

"She's _dead_. You _killed_ her…"

It was like she couldn't quite believe it had happened. Merle couldn't really believe it, yet, himself.

"How—how could…"

She was choked up. Had trouble speaking. Started again.

"How could you _do_ it?"

"I don't—"

He cut himself off.

_I don't know._

He felt like he _hadn't_ done it. Like he'd just stood there the whole time, and it happened all on its own.

"She's just a _kid_, Merle…"

And Jenny. Tough-as-fucking-nails Jenny—she was crying. Crying, and leaning over Joellen.

Over the body.

* * *

Merle was with Daryl—back when they were both in their twenties. They were walking along the edge of the creek. Looking out at the stars on a fine, fall evening.

And they ran across Jenny. She was wading out into the water—where it got wide and the swift current moved smoothly over the sandy bottom. The surface was like black glass. And Jenny was with some of her friends. A group of girls, swimming naked in the cool, night air. He could see their pale arms in the moonlight. Their laughter echoed out over the water—light and lovely. Inviting.

Jenny. That creek water must have been ice cold, that late at night. But Jenny didn't care—didn't give a fuck about anything but what she wanted. And that always got Merle going, just _thinking_ about it.

And Merle. He wanted to go out to them. Wanted Daryl to come along. Wanted Daryl to join him with those girls—really, he wanted him where Merle understood the rules. Where he could keep him. Wanted to draw Daryl into his world—into the black water, where the current ran fast and deep.

But when he turned back from Jenny, he saw that Daryl was already gone.

He'd slipped away into the trees while Merle wasn't looking. He had this amazing knack for moving silently in the woods. _That_ was Daryl's world, and he moved through it effortlessly. Was like a ghost, himself, sometimes.

* * *

Merle watched Jenny sitting there under the white oak, hovering over the body in the grass.

And things got real quiet, then. He could hear some birds calling out, somewhere far away.

He paced around beside her. The light grew warm and long and low. It glided over the yellow grass as the sun set beyond the hills. And Jenny didn't move from Jo's side. Just looked at her beaten body—white and cold, with the blood on its face.

He was numb. Jenny was still crying, slow and silent. And he didn't entirely understand. Hated that he didn't understand. Hated being confronted with the black hole inside his chest.

So he almost envied her. Felt a strange impulse to ask her what made it so she could _do_ that—cry over the girl. Wanted to ask her what kind of thing there was inside her that he didn't have. But he didn't. He couldn't. Didn't have the words.

At long last, she sighed—hard. Staring at Jo's face.

"I'm out, Merle."

She shook her head.

"I'm done."

Jenny looked up at him, and her voice was dull and flat.

"This here is done."

And it was then that Merle saw Joellen moving at Jenny's side. Just a little—real slow. Her eyelids fluttered. A hand twitched. As if she was starting to wake up.

* * *

Merle was seventeen, and his daddy had just called him up to his room—like he sometimes did. Sometimes he wanted to talk, when he did that. Joke around. Sometimes he wanted to get high.

This time, he wanted to push Merle down the stairs.

He made it to the top and his father hit him—hard. Straight out of the blue so Merle couldn't prepare himself. And he was rolling, falling—out of control. Felt a bone crack inside his arm. It might have been his imagination, but he thought he could _hear_ it breaking. Hear the ugly snap.

The pain only came later, when he was lying in a pile on the floor downstairs.

When he finally managed to stand, he knew was banged up pretty bad. Had some bruised ribs, and a broken arm. And he could hear his daddy walking back into his bedroom. Heard the door latch shut behind him.

He needed Daryl to help him set that arm—and Daryl did it. He was always there for things like that, even though he was only ten years old. And then—then Daryl just lay there next to Merle on his bed. It wasn't like he could do much more to help, but it seemed like he wanted to be close.

And so his kid brother stayed with him, in his room, that whole night.

Daryl.

Eventually, he drifted off to sleep there, right at Merle's side.

* * *

Joellen started tugging at the grass with her hands—trying to get some purchase and raise herself. And after that, everything happened in seconds.

Merle didn't understand what he was seeing, at first. But part of him—part of him that was buried deep down—_part_ of him got hopeful. Maybe he _hadn't_ really done it. Maybe she was going to be ok.

Then Joellen raised her head from the ground, and he saw her eyes. Clouded. Dead. He knew those eyes—had seen ones just like them countless times. Coming at him, hungry and blank and cold. Staring right into his flesh in the instant before he stabbed or shot or beat some dead thing down.

She was a walker. She'd never got _bit_, but she was a walker just the same.

He started forward. Almost shouted out to Jenny. Almost warned her. Almost tugged her out of the way.

But he didn't. Something stopped him. He just watched.

The dead girl grabbed at Jenny's arm. Too fast for her—she hadn't been looking at the body when it started to move. She'd been looking at Merle.

She gasped—didn't have time to scream. Joellen clamped down on Jenny's bicep. Dug in—hard and fast and unyielding. Tore a whole chunk of the flesh away.

* * *

Jenny.

Jenny out beneath the railroad bridge where the creek runs by. Jenny with her long legs draped across his daddy's sofa. Jenny under the high school bleachers, pulling a cigarette straight from his lips and taking a good, long drag.

Jenny at fifteen years old, laughing at his jokes and throwing beer bottles at passing cars. Jenny pacing around in his bedroom, wearing one of his leather jackets and nothing else.

Jenny's mouth. Jenny's breasts. Jenny's eyes.

And Jenny's blood—Jenny's blood running onto the grass by the old, oak tree.

* * *

Merle pulled his .38. Shot Joellen as she moved in for Jenny again. She collapsed to the ground—dead for good, this time. And at that close distance, the sheer force blew out a good part of the back of Jo's skull—splattered Jenny full over with Jo's brains and bone and blood.

And then Merle was standing there at point-blank range, looking down into Jenny's bloody face. And he thought of what she'd just said to him.

_I'm out, Merle. I'm done. This here is done._

And he was frightened. He was always frightened. The way she'd been looking at him, since he'd killed the girl. Jenny had seen him—she'd seen that blank, empty hole inside.

She'd seen. She _knew_.

But Jenny was bit—so she was good as dead. And he knew that if he took care of her now, none of the others would hear anything about what happened—what he'd done.

One more gunshot, and no one would hear he'd killed the girl. No one would ever know.

And Jenny—she read it in his face. Held up her hands.

"No, Merle."

Jenny. Tough-as-fucking-nails Jenny. Her hands were shaking. There was blood running down her left arm in thick spurts—a heavy, rhythmic flow that followed the pace of her heartbeat. She didn't even try to staunch it. Just let it all run over her and away.

"Merle—no—wait. Just wait."

She looked right up at him with those big, dark eyes of hers. Whispered his name.

"Merle."

A moment later, the report of his .38 was echoing off the hills, and Jenny was dead. Sprawled in the grass at the foot of the oak tree.


	14. Returning and Rest

_Chapter Fourteen is ready for you, today. I am obliged to warn you there are not-particularly-graphic references to sex in this. We're getting close to the endgame, now... seems like it's all gone pretty fast, to me. Thank you for sticking with me so far—I've been really looking forward to telling the end of this story. It's all been sitting in my head since June, and now I finally get to start sharing it with you. Enjoy!_

* * *

_Returning and Rest:_

Carol stared at the wall.

It was Daryl's wall, and she was in Daryl's room. The early morning light made dim patterns on the faded wallpaper, and over Daryl's blankets. His body warmed the sheets around her, and Carol could sense him lying there at her back—could hear him breathing. It was unusual that she was awake before he was.

She turned towards his window. It was an overcast morning. She could see the branches of the oak trees against that grey sky outside. And inside, against the glass, those ears were still hanging on a string by the window latch.

He kept them, as if he wanted to remind himself of something.

Daryl shifted at her side. He was a restless sleeper. He was always stirring, moving. As if there was just too much inside his head for his body to contain it all. As if he was off his guard when he slept, and everything started creeping its way out.

And he didn't say anything about it, of course, but she could tell he had vivid dreams.

He let out a hard breath. Whispered something she couldn't understand. He was dreaming right now.

And she watched him, a while. Took in the open vulnerability of his face. It pulled at her. Drew her to him.

So she leaned over—kissed him, and woke him up.

* * *

In Daryl's dream, he was deep in the forest, with the sweat clinging heavily over his skin.

And the abandoned house was there. The one where he'd searched for Sophia, that summer. The one with the cupboard, where someone little had slept.

But this time, he could see a whitetail doe in the doorway, standing there on her delicate, spindled legs. Their eyes met, and she turned—slipped soundlessly through the open door, and into the shadows beyond.

So he followed her.

But when he stepped inside, he wasn't in the abandoned, country house. He was in that tower in the city—the one where Merle lost his hand.

And there were trees everywhere. The roots tangled over the flooring. The trunks were tall throughout the hallways, and all the rooms were full of briars—wrapped around chairs and climbing up the walls. The trees branches rose up into the ceiling above his head, and their leaves fell down from above in a slow shower.

And the doe was nowhere to be seen. So he tried to find her. Moved forward into a wide network of offices and storerooms. Scanned the scattered leaves for tracks.

He looked for the deer, and he looked for Merle. Looked for Sophia, and looked for his mama.

_I'm done lookin' for people._

He'd never be done. Never. He'd always be looking—searching—seeking—_seeing_. Because Daryl knew who he was. He was a hunter. Hunters search. They seek. They find.

And in his sleep, he sensed a movement in the air above his face. It pierced through the dream, and he started to wake up. The trees grew dim, and the city tower faded along with them.

He opened his eyes, and there was someone there.

Carol. Carol leaning over him.

Carol's lips on his, and sunlight.

* * *

Carol.

Being with her was like wandering out in the deepest woods, where no one else would ever go.

That was the only way he could explain the feeling—even to himself. The life he'd led gave him no other language for what she was to him. And so when Daryl woke that morning, and she drew him into that kiss, it was all he could think about. The forest.

She was the early morning. She was the roots inside the earth.

And when he leaned over her, and took her in his arms, she was the smooth flow of the water. When he found himself with his lips on her neck and his hands on her skin, she was the rich soil and the fresh vines twining around the sapling trees.

She was as quiet as the deepest woods. Gentle like its shaded groves. Calm like the morning air, moving imperceptibly through the branches.

He stroked the tips of his fingers across her side, and she yielded to the touch. Sank into the mattress beneath him, and let out a soft sigh. It flowed over his cheek, and ear. And that soft stirring of air on his face—it was enough to break him.

Just to _touch_ someone like that—to know that he could do it, and it was safe. It opened up all sorts of strange, new possibilities in his mind. Things he'd never considered before.

Being with her was rest. It was beauty. It was everything he'd ever loved.

It was peace.

* * *

That afternoon, Carol went outside, and watched the others throw the ball in the backyard.

It never occurred to her to join in, but she always liked to look on from a distance. There were never enough people to play a real game—so they tended to make up the rules as they went along. And no one minded—that wasn't the point of the thing, after all.

Daryl was out there, this time. He didn't always join them. But _this_ time, he seemed like he really wanted to.

And to her, Daryl seemed a bit more effusive than usual. Most people wouldn't have been able to tell the difference, but Carol could tell. When T-Dog tripped him, and offered him his hand, Daryl took it. Lingered a brief instant in his grip before letting go.

She strongly suspected he needed some comfort—was reaching out to the others for it, in his tentative, quiet way. He hadn't mentioned Merle to her since the night before, when he came back from his visit to their aunt's house. But of course he hadn't forgotten.

When the game was over, Daryl passed her by—touched her arm, and went back into the house. The others followed. And before she knew it, she was alone in the backyard. She could hear the wind in the trees beyond the iron fence.

Carol sat on the porch steps for a long time. Breathed in the cool air, and watched the sun go down.

* * *

Merle stared up into the swelling dark. Into the tall branches soaring out above his head.

After he killed the two girls, he left them there in the grass. Didn't really know what else to do. And he went straight back to the car and headed for the woods. Went to lie out in the leaves on the forest floor.

And the place was full of walkers, but he didn't care.

He didn't want to go back to his aunt's house. There was nothing waiting for him there but a barrage of questions he couldn't answer.

So he sprawled out in the leaves, and used some of the stash he kept hidden in the car—some he'd held back from the others, and kept for himself. He hoped it would dull the strange, suffocating feeling welling up in his chest. Like there were things inside his ribcage, trying to claw their way out.

His mind was a tangle of urges and worries and fears. He didn't know what to do next.

And something stirred in the distance. A shape. A walker. He ignored it. He had to think.

Most of all, he wanted someone to _talk_ to. Merle was never very good company for himself. He worked best in front of an audience.

Before the damned apocalypse ruined everything, he'd had plenty of people to listen to him talk. Billy, and Timmy, and his other buddies. They were fucking idiots, but they'd listen when they had to.

The shape lurched closer. He didn't look at it. He could hear its ragged groans. Sense it out of the corner of his eye—moving through the trees, close at his side.

Daryl was the best one to talk to, of course. He was as sharp as anyone Merle had ever met. And somehow, he didn't have to _say_ anything for those smarts to wear off on you—just by getting him to listen they seemed to seep on through. And then you could figure out whatever you were trying to understand.

But when Daryl wasn't around—when he was out squirrel hunting or whatever the hell _else_ it was he did—Jenny had always been real good about listening to him ramble on. She'd lie there on his bed, leaning back on his pillows, twining a lock of her dark hair around her fingertips—and let him talk and talk about whatever bullshit was floating around in his head.

So he wanted Jenny, then. Felt that hollow, nameless pain crawling around in his ribs, again.

He wanted Jenny, and she was gone. He could almost laugh out loud, at that. It was bitterly funny. He wanted to talk to her about what went down—wanted to sort it out with her. Wanted her to make him feel better about her own fucking murder.

Irony was rarely ever lost on Merle.

The walker was right on him, then. Sank to its knees in front of him. Leaned over him, snarling and hungry.

It had been a woman. Its tangled hair hung down over him. The dirty locks stroked his cheek as it leaned in. The skin on most of its face was gone. He could see its grinning teeth, and the tendons flexing on the jawbone.

And Jenny wasn't there, so he talked to the walker, instead.

It was just reaching out for his shoulders—sinking in to bite him. He cuffed it to the side, hard. It rolled on the dirt. Fell down a low slope. He sat up on the ground and watched it go.

"Tell me somethin'," he said. It turned and glared at him from below. Started crawling its way back up to him.

"Tell me why things gotta _be_ like this?"

It reached the top, and struggled to stand. He stood up, too. Waited for it.

"Why are things so goddamned fucking _unfair?"_

She tried to grab him and he threw her to the side. Spun around to watch her struggle—she looked left and right, like she'd lost track of exactly where he was.

He drew his hunting knife. Tilted his head.

"You gotta know somethin' about it, right?"

She saw him. Started rushing full tilt for him. And he stepped to the side as she came at him. Pulled her into a headlock with his bad arm. She struggled against him, and he could smell the rot all over her while she did it.

"I mean—you're _dead_."

He drove the knife down into her rotting skull. Tugged it out.

"How fucking fair is _that?"_

And the thing landed on the ground. He looked down at the crumpled body. Let out a breath.

"Fucking useless fucking geek."

The thing was a poor damned substitute for a living ear. And Merle knew he needed one. Needed the best one.

He needed Daryl.

* * *

Daryl was sitting out in that tower above the house, keeping watch alone. He went up there, and sent Beth and Hershel to bed. They'd gladly taken the extra sleep.

Daryl needed somewhere quiet to think.

He'd had nagging thoughts about his mother all day. And as he sat in the tower, he tried to remember everything he could about her. Tried to remember her face. So fresh and pretty and delicate—framed with that long, brown hair.

He thought of that night in the late December. Of her coming into his room, holding him in her arms. Crying. Stroking his hair back until he fell asleep.

It nagged at him. There was something he'd been missing. Something about that night. Something he remembered about it. Something he understood on some unconscious level that he just couldn't articulate, yet.

He got close, then. But then he saw a movement outside, and the mental picture faded away.

A shape. Right by the back fence. Something moving. Reeling around.

A walker.

There had been fewer than he expected over the month they'd spent in the house. Just one or two at a time—whatever wandered out of the woods. And now there was another straggler.

He grabbed the binoculars, and looked. It _wasn't_ a walker. It was Merle.

He sighed. Of course it was Merle.

It was like he _knew_ Daryl was up there, watching, and that no one else was awake. He seemed to have this unbelievable ability to get Daryl alone. And even _seeing_ him way down there got Daryl feeling completely exhausted.

He grabbed his flashlight, and headed for the stairs.

By the time he reached the backyard, Merle was halfway over the fence. And by the time Daryl made it to his side, he'd fallen _off_ the fence. Raked his calf all the way along a sharp edge on the wrought iron. Daryl could see the blood running off the scrollwork in the glow of his flashlight.

And Merle was on the grass then, sprawled out at Daryl's feet. He looked up at Daryl. His eyes were glassy and Daryl knew he wasn't completely sober.

He smiled.

"Hey there, little brother."

* * *

Daryl sometimes wondered why Carol never mentioned his scars. He was _covered_ with them, after all, and no one else had ever really had much of a chance to see them up close. _Merle_ had, of course—there wasn't much secret between the two of them. But Merle didn't count. Carol was a woman, and so with her it was completely, entirely different. She'd had her _hands_ on him—all over him. Her lips. And the whole time, she never said a _word_ about those scars. He didn't notice her ever really looking at them, either. It was like they simply didn't matter to her.

But to Daryl, those scars told many, many stories. They'd _always_ matter, to him.

There was the day he'd fallen out of his favorite maple tree, when he was fourteen years old. He'd carved a girl's name in the bark, that day. Climbed up high to do it.

It was a girl from school. One from a group of girls like sylphs—all slender bodies and large eyes and long, shining hair. And to Daryl, they really _were_ mythological creatures. Lovely, distant beings that floated through the hallways as if they weren't even real.

And he was enchanted by them—by one of them, in particular—so he carved her name into the bark.

He'd done it just to see the letters there, looking back at him. To make something real out of the name they spelled. But a moment later, he'd scratched it all out again. Gouged the bark with his knife. It was stupid. Pointless. He was angry at himself for even thinking of doing it. And his carving knife slipped in his hand, and he sliced open the webbing between his thumb and index finger. And he startled at that—lost his balance on the branch.

And down he went.

He hit branch after branch. Got all sorts of scrapes and cuts and bruises on the way. The fall banged him up but good. It was a beating worthy of his daddy.

More than one of those wounds left a scar—just like Daddy's beatings did. And it was a miracle he didn't break any bones in that fall—he could easily have broken his _neck_, really. What a way to go that would have been. Death by pathetic fucking stupidity.

But the branches broke much of the force of his fall, and he landed on the forest floor in a heap—stunned and breathless, with the blood gushing all over the place from his hand. And he lay there a long time on the leaves—humiliated to the point of tears, even though no one had seen it happen.

And after that, he managed to shuffle back to the house, bruised and disheartened and defeated.

When he opened the door, Merle was there. Sitting on the couch with his boots on the coffee table—flipping through a magazine. Judging from the lurid cover, some kind of pornography.

Merle was just back from basic training. The Marines. And he was at his very peak in just about every sense. Tall and young and fit—and totally sober for the first time since he'd started using. He was in a good mood, then—happy about all his adventures, and full of stories about his new buddies and all the fucking amazing things he'd gotten to do while he was away.

And so when Daryl dragged himself back into the house, Merle looked him over with a good humored smile.

"Hey bro," Merle said, dropping that magazine on the table.

"You get in some kinda bar brawl? Didn't invite me?"

Daryl didn't say anything. Stood there with his hand out, getting blood all over the floor.

And Merle just kept on talking.

"C'mon, tell me—how bad's the _other_ guy look?"

And he wasn't sure what made him do it, but Daryl sank down on the couch next to him, and blurted it all out. Told Merle exactly what happened. What he'd been doing up in that tree, and why he fell, and how stupid he felt about the whole pathetic endeavor.

And Merle was kind to him. Smiled, and told him to come on over to the bathroom and they'd patch him right on up.

Merle cleaned out the gash on Daryl's hand, over the sink, and chuckled.

"I bet that tree don't know what fucking _hit it_, little brother."

And then Merle sat with him, side by side on the edge of the bathtub. Got Daryl's shirt off him, and worked on the other cuts, too. There was music spilling out from the radio on the counter next to them. It flowed over them—all thin and grainy and full of static. And something about that white noise was comforting, to Daryl.

Looking back on that day—it always made Daryl wonder what Merle would have been like if things had been different. If he'd had a better time at home, growing up. If he'd never gotten into the drugs. If he'd always been fit and happy and sober—like he was so briefly in that one, short autumn.

It wouldn't last. Merle gave Daryl a good number of scars before then, and would keep on doing it long after.

But that day was different. After he'd treated the wounds, Merle tried to cheer Daryl up. Took him to sit on the back steps and watch the stars come out. Brought him a beer. Told Daryl all sorts of tales about his exploits—things that had happened to him, past and present. Some of those stories were fucking hilarious.

Merle always loved to talk. Could keep up whole conversations almost entirely by himself. And Daryl didn't mind. He hated talking to people. Always preferred to listen.

Their best conversations had always been one-sided.

* * *

Daryl picked Merle up off the ground at the edge of that iron fence. Brought him inside, so he could patch up his leg. The cut was bleeding so bad he felt he didn't have much of a choice.

Even so, he wasn't about to wake Hershel for this one. Not with how things were getting. Hershel hadn't been there when Merle was at the quarry—but he _had_ to have heard the others talking. And the others didn't _get it _about Merle—they all seemed to think he was some kind of slavering monster.

Even _Carol_ thought he might have killed their mama, when Rick suggested it.

Merle played it all so big and loud and brash that it was easy to see him that way. But there was more going on, there. Things the rest couldn't see. Daryl knew it.

And Daryl had learned a thing or two about sutures through his taxidermy, and he had some small experience with open wounds.

So he didn't involve the others. Daryl was confident he could sew this whole thing shut himself.

* * *

He and Merle found themselves sitting at the butcher block table in the kitchen, together, with some hot water simmering on the stovetop. Daryl got Merle to stretch out his leg on a chair, and inspected the gash. It was pretty big, and still bleeding badly.

"You took my bike," Merle said.

Daryl looked up from the cut.

"Sorry, man."

Merle shook his head.

"Nah—it's alright."

He held up that severed stump.

"Can't ride no more, anyway."

A pause. Daryl worked peroxide into the wound, and it foamed up. Merle didn't flinch. Was clearly still thinking about the bike—parked just outside in the yard.

"You're takin' care of it, though, ain't you?"

"Yeah, Merle," Daryl said, "Best I can."

And Merle nodded to the leather vest Daryl was wearing, then—the one with the wings worked onto the back.

"_That's_ mine, too."

It was true. Daryl found it rolled up in the back of one of the saddle bags on the bike. Didn't realize Merle had brought it with him, until then. And he took to wearing it. It just seemed like the thing to do.

"You want it back?"

Merle shrugged. Didn't seem to care either way. Daryl took it off—pushed it over the table to him, and it just sat there on the wood.

And when he looked up, Daryl realized that Merle's eyes were wet. And Daryl was shocked. Merle gestured in the air with his one hand.

"Daryl, _God_. I…"

A pause.

"Daryl, I—"

Merle cut himself off. Looked like he wanted to tell Daryl something—like he wanted to very, very badly. Like he had something pressing on his mind, but couldn't quite bring himself to speak up.

So he just trailed off—got quiet. And that was strange, for Merle. Daryl got the sense that he was afraid. And that feeling wore off on Daryl a bit—just like it would have when they were kids. He started to get unsettled. Wasn't sure what to say.

So he just looked down at that wound. Got ready to start in on sewing it shut.

"This is gonna leave a nasty scar," he said, piercing the skin with the curved, surgical needle.

Merle snorted, at that. Had recovered from that momentary lapse.

"What fucking _doesn't_."

* * *

Later on, Merle was playing with a stray pen someone had left lying on the kitchen table. Spinning it around in his fingers. And Daryl remembered how his brother used to draw real well.

Merle was right handed, so that was over with.

"How's that thing doin'?" Daryl asked, nodding towards the sawed-off stump.

"You been ok?"

Merle shrugged.

"Hurts a lot, sometimes. And it _itches_—that's the worst. Can't scratch it 'cause it's not fucking _there_. Enough to drive you fucking _crazy_, brother."

He gestured to the air. Sighed. Sounded tired.

"Hard to explain."

And they trailed off, again. Daryl leaned in close to Merle's leg, trying to see what he was doing as clearly as possible in the dim light.

And he got to thinking about what Rick said, before. About finding a witness from the time his mama disappeared.

He was currently stitching up the only surviving witness' leg.

"Hey, Merle."

"Hmm?"

"What do you remember 'bout our mama?"

He looked back at Daryl, blankly surprised.

"What was that?"

"Been thinkin' about her, lately. Bein' here… home. You know?"

Daryl drew the needle through the skin, then looked back up at his brother.

"You ever think about what happened with her? Maybe you remember somethin'?"

Merle shook his head.

"Nah, man. Sorry."

And then he corrected himself. Fell into one of those long, one-sided conversations he was so good at starting.

"Well… no. That ain't right. I remember a little."

"It was winter time—I remember that. Real late in the year. And one morning, when we all woke up, she was just _gone_."

"Didn't seem like anything was different, before she left… she just _left_."

"Always just figured she ran out on us. I mean, why _wouldn't_ she go?"

"...and it didn't really matter, anyway. She was never really there to begin with."

"Brother… you were too little to remember, but our mama—she didn't give two shits about us. About me."

"... she wasn't all _there_. In the _head."_

"And after, it was just us and Daddy. And you know what he was like."

"After she was gone, he just sorta gave up. Went up in that fucking _room_ like it was the only place left in the fucking _world_."

"Stayed in there pretty much the rest of his fucking _life."_

And Daryl was done with the wound—finished knotting the thread as best he could. Hoped it would hold until the thing healed up.

And Merle shrugged.

"But you already know all this. I mean, you were _there_."

And then Merle interrupted himself. Leaned over the table to Daryl.

"Daryl, fuck it all. Let's just _go."_

"We can leave together. It was _good_ when it was just us. You and me."

"It's you and me, right? _Always_ been just you and me. So _fuck_ the rest of 'em. _All_ of 'em. Let's _go_. _Now_."

Daryl stood up. Looked down at his brother, and the medical supplies scattered all around the table.

"I gotta clean this up," he said.

* * *

Daryl left Merle alone a moment, to put away those supplies.

He never actually said he wouldn't go with Merle, but it was clear Merle got the message. Seemed like he'd been expecting that answer, anyway.

When Daryl came back, he saw his brother standing at the door to the side parlor. Looking through the glass, watching Lori, lying there—obviously pregnant and fast asleep.

And it rattled him, somehow. He rushed over.

"Get _away_ from there!" he hissed, under his breath—grabbing Merle's arm and pulling him away.

Merle chuckled, quietly. Gestured to where Lori was sleeping, down the hall.

"What, is it _yours?"_

Daryl shoved him back into the hallway. Glared at his brother, and pulled him towards the front door.

"Ok, Merle," he said, "It's time for you to go."

And Merle looked a little doubtful, then.

"… it's _not_ yours, right?"

Daryl stared at him. And Merle just kept on in at him.

"You're definitely fucking _one_ of 'em. You gotta be. _That's_ why you won't go."

He could see it in Daryl's face. That he'd hit on something. And he grinned in that way he had that told you he could strike out any moment.

"Didn't know you had it _in_ you, baby brother. You just carve their names in fucking _trees_."

Merle let out one of his long, rolling chuckles, and Daryl grabbed him by the collar. Opened the door and pushed him through it.

They made it to the porch, and Merle spun around on him. Struggled with Daryl and got himself free. Just kept on talking.

"But it's not that one down the hall. No, it's that _other_ one. The one you brought to Aunt Sarah's when you tried to fucking _drop_ me."

Daryl didn't say anything. There wasn't anything _to_ say, really. So he just pulled his brother down the steps, and Merle went along with him. He was a little surprised at that—that Merle didn't put up a fight. He just kept on rambling as Daryl led him down the front walk.

"But why _her_, though? Ain't nothin' special 'bout her."

"So why _her_, brother? Tell me."

"Why _her_—hell—why _them?"_

They made it to the gate. Daryl pulled it open and pushed his brother through. And Merle grabbed at the iron bars with his one hand. Rattled them. Started to get upset.

"Fucking _out_ with it! Tell me fucking _why_—why them and not _me_?"

He sounded exasperated. Petulant. And he held up his bad arm, then—showed Daryl the stump, yet again. Seemed to really like doing that.

"_They_ _did_ _this to me_, Daryl."

Daryl pushed the gate shut, and it stood between them. And Daryl looked at Merle through the bars a moment. And then he spoke over his shoulder as he walked away.

"You did this to yourself."

* * *

Carol heard Daryl's footfalls on the stairs. Heard him walking across the hall—stopping by his door a moment, thinking better of it, then heading for hers, instead. She was up late—sitting at the edge of her mattress, holding her Bible.

And he stood in the doorway, and told her everything about Merle. What just happened. And Carol thought it over, quietly, with the Bible open in her hands.

"It sounds like he's different," she said to him, at last.

She remembered back to Merle in the quarry camp. What he was like, then. He'd been strong and confident and imposing. Just bursting with energy. Now he sounded like some kind of wounded animal—something strained and hungry and frightened.

And Carol suspected that he thought she'd go after him for letting Merle in the house—alone, without telling anybody. Suspected he'd been taking himself to task pretty harshly for it, in his own mind. But she understood.

He loved his brother.

Daryl stood in her door, and she saw he was looking over at her vanity table, then. It was covered with neat stacks of paper, and her notebooks, and the journals. And at one side, there was the photograph of his mother—the one Carol had taken from those boxes of Rose's things. She'd put it there. Looked at it, sometimes, in the mornings.

And then he nodded to her Bible.

"What you readin'?"

"Isaiah."

"What part?"

She looked down to the line next to the silk ribbon. Right against the press of her thumb on the page. Read the passage out loud.

"In returning and rest shall you be saved. In quietness and in confidence shall be your strength."

She put the book aside. And Daryl moved forward, then. Sank to the floor in front of her, and rested his head against her knees.

* * *

Merle sat out in the middle of the road. Right on the double yellow line. He was about a half mile from the painted lady. Had been headed to his car, and just gave up. Sank down where he'd been walking, as if his legs had given out.

He couldn't go to Jenny. He couldn't go to Daryl. He couldn't go home.

So he lay down flat on the asphalt, and looked up at the stars.

* * *

In the early hours of the morning, Daryl's dreams began to coalesce. He was searching—hunting, like he always was in his dreams. And this time, he was in his daddy's house. Standing at the foot of the uneven, old stairwell. In the dream, he was repelled by the very sight of the place. It was like the walls were surrounding him—pressing in closer and closer like some kind of trap.

And then he was three years old, and he could hear his mother's wracking sobs as she clung to him in his bed. And his daddy paced around in the room above them.

And then he saw it.

He understood, at last. It was there in front of him the whole time.

He snapped awake. Carol sensed it. Stirred beside him, and sat up. Looked into his face. He took her arm and stared back at her.

"Carol. I know—I _know_."

He looked around the room. Saw the photograph of his mama, sitting out on Carol's table.

"I know what happened to her."


	15. Rosalie

_Hello folks. I was just about done with this one when my hard drive crashed. And I had to write it again. Here it is. Take two. __I want to remind people that one of the genre selections I made for this is "angst." There are disturbing themes in this. References to or not-very-graphic descriptions of violence involving women, animals, etc. So take this as a fair warning._

_Five more chapters to go. I'm looking forward to them. Thank you so much for reading this with me! And now, on to what happened to Rosalie._

* * *

_Rosalie:_

It took Carol a moment to process what Daryl was saying to her. That he'd figured it out. That he knew what happened to his mother.

And then Daryl let go of her arm. Leapt out of her bed and immediately started dressing.

"C'mon," he said.

Clearly, he wanted to take her somewhere. And Carol had some strong suspicions about where they were about to go.

And she wanted him to tell her what he'd learned—desperately. But he wouldn't _talk_ to her. He was overflowing with a nervous sort of energy that struck him completely silent.

So Carol found herself getting pulled along in his wake. She dressed. It took her a good minute to hook her bra, because her fingers were shaking.

Daryl waited for her. Tapped his feet on the floor while he watched her lace up her boots. He was sitting at her vanity table—next to her stacks of papers and books and notes about his mother. His hands were fidgeting against his knees. And the moment she was ready, he headed out into the hallway. She tried to keep up. Grabbed her coat and left her bedroom door hanging open behind her.

And outside the house, the air had that strangeness to it that comes with the predawn hours. It spilled over her face.

"Wait here," he said.

Then he went off to get something—out at the side of the house, in the tool shed.

Carol waited on the porch, and heard the first lone birdsong in the air, floating out from the forest.

When he came back, she saw that he had something in his hands. A crowbar—the very same one he'd used to break into the library. It seemed like that happened years ago.

Daryl dropped it in one of the saddlebags. Started the engine. It growled at them, breaking the morning quiet. And he turned to her—looked at her, leaning there against the porch railing.

"Come _on_," he said, gripping the handlebars. So she rushed over, and they sped away.

* * *

Daryl pulled the bike out onto the country roads, and headed for his daddy's house.

The deserted roadways stretched out all around them—filled with fallen branches and debris. The two of them sped past a single abandoned car, with some stray walkers moving around at its side. Its windows were thickly coated with condensation from the nighttime cold.

And they got closer and closer. Carol was clinging tightly to his sides—and he could tell she was nervous. Dried, autumn leaves spun in the air around the wheels as they rushed along.

And Daryl remembered the dream he'd had, when the two of them were trapped up in that bell tower. The first of a series of dreams that had tried to tell him what he already knew. In that dream, he was looking for Sophia. Found her hiding inside his daddy's house. He remembered what he'd felt, then—the certainty he'd had as he stepped inside the door.

_She's here. She's somewhere inside—right here. She's _always _been _right here_._

And he'd thought that was all about the search for Sophia, at the time. About how much he'd wanted to find her. About how close he felt he'd been, and how unfair it was that it went down the way it did.

_She's __always __been __right here_.

He thought that was all about the little girl.

But it wasn't.

* * *

Merle was sprawled out in the back seat of his car—his head resting against his arm. He was lost in a thin sleep.

And the sound of an engine pierced through that dim veil. It sounded a lot like his bike. He'd loved that damn thing. Knew every little sound that engine made—spent countless hours checking out its works. Listening to it purr.

That bike did more for Merle than most anyone he'd ever known. It was easy to deal with—predictable. One of the best things that ever happened to him.

So when he heard it, he opened his eyes. Sat up to look around. And there was nothing. Condensation on the car windows, and quiet.

He rubbed his eyes with his one hand. He'd been using pretty hard the last day, and hadn't eaten anything since well before he'd fled his aunt's house.

And with the sound of that engine echoing inside his head, he was starting to think he'd been hearing things. Things that weren't there.

He made to open the car door—to get out and stretch his back. Took the handle and pushed on it.

The dome light went on overhead, and a hand slammed down on the window in front of his face.

Another followed. And another. They smeared at the condensation on the glass. Left trailing streaks, there. He could see the vague outlines of their faces beyond the handprints.

Walkers. Just outside the car. Prying at the door as he held onto the inside handle.

A bolt of fear shot through him. And in that moment, he _did_ hear something. Something that wasn't there. His daddy's voice.

_Be a man, Merle._

* * *

Daryl turned onto the dead-end road. Moved passed the abandoned, double-wide trailer at the front, and towards his daddy's house beyond it.

He was thinking about what daddy said, sitting on the floorboards of his upstairs bedroom, when Daryl was seventeen years old. When Daddy called him up there, and made him drink that spoiled beer, and told him all of his opinions on married love.

Daddy stared into the floor the whole time—never once looked up at Daryl through that whole strange, vaguely frightening speech of his. And he told Daryl what he thought happened when a woman got under your skin:

"She don't never _leave_. She's always right fucking _there_. All the time. _Forever."_

That was the third day after Christmas. The twenty-eighth of December.

Fourteen years to the day since his mama wrote her last diary entry.

* * *

And Daryl pulled up on the grass beside the house. Thought of what Merle said, just the night before. About what Daddy was like, after their mama disappeared:

"_After she was gone, he just sorta gave up. Went up in that fucking room like it was the only place in the fucking world."_

* * *

Merle tried to force the car door shut again—pulled at it with his one hand. But two of them had already gotten their fingers wrapped around the side. He wasn't going to be able to force the door shut against them. Not with just one fucking hand to do it with. They were going to get in if he tried.

So he leaned back, drew his hunting knife, and kicked the car door open with his boots.

The walkers went flying. There were three of them, sprawled out on the pavement. He leapt out of the cab and stepped down on the closest one's throat. Pinned it in place, and plunged his knife into its eye, grunting hard with the effort. The others were starting to get up.

But he could handle this. He kicked one back, hard, and it fell down again. And he let the other get close. When it lunged, he twisted to the side. Got it in the skull from behind. And then there was only one to worry about. He took care of it the same way.

And afterwards, he felt the sweat on his skin. He was lightheaded. So he leaned on the side of the car, and let the cool metal calm the tension underneath his skin.

* * *

Most of all, it was Daryl's one, lonely memory his mama that spoke to him. Told him what had happened.

It had been a cold, winter night, when he was three years old. And he knew, now—was _certain_ that it was the twenty-eighth of December. The day of the final journal entry.

The final day.

His mama had come into his room. Wrapped her arms around him, and wept into his hair. And they lay there together in his bed, and listened to the sound of his father's feet on the floorboards.

Those footfalls made a crisp, tight rhythm on the wood. Even all these years later, he remembered that detail as clearly as he'd remembered anything in his entire life.

But _after_ that night, the sound of his father's footsteps changed. The wood creaked beneath his feet. Groaned under his weight as if it was in pain. Daryl heard that sound day after day for years on end.

Every night when he tried to fall asleep, he'd lie there in his bed and hear it floating down from above. He'd look up at his ceiling, and listen to his father pace around in that upstairs bedroom. Every morning he'd wake to the sound—that agonized sound of the sagging wood, shifting under the weight of his father's boots.

Every day of Daryl's whole damn _life_, those creaking, strained footfalls echoed down to him from above.

It was the floorboards. They'd been crisp and flush and tight. And then… then they weren't.

Daddy tore them up, that final night. And they never settled in right, after he'd put them back in place.

* * *

Daryl yanked the old, screen door open. Pushed at the front door, and bolted straight into his daddy's house.

He didn't stop to look around. Went straight for the stairs—went right to his daddy's bedroom.

And he remembered. Remembered sitting on the living room floor with Merle, rolling the trucks around, there. There was a heavy snow falling outside, and his mother had been missing a good while.

"When's Mama comin' home?"

Merle asked their daddy that question, that day.

And mama was gone long enough, by that time, that the house was a mess. There was food out—trash. Dirty dishes all over the place.

So that's where he'd always assumed that smell had come from.

Daryl was starting to realize that he'd been wrong about that.

That slight smell of decay sank into everything—faintly pervasive in the crisp, winter air. It clung in the corners of the old house.

And their daddy pretty much ignored Merle's question. Didn't look at him or explain. Just walked out. He spoke through the door as he left. His voice was dull and flat.

"You don't got no mama," he said.

"Get used to it."

* * *

Merle listened to his breath slow down. The bodies of the walkers were sprawled out at his feet. The morning air was very quiet. He looked out into the trees.

And he noticed something.

Merle was no tracker—not like Daryl, anyway. But he could see those walkers had come out of the woods. There was a clear path in the underbrush.

And he was curious about that—about where they came from. So he started to follow the path.

It wasn't long before he came to a sharp slope. The forest dropped down into a steep ravine, there. Saplings strained up towards him, growing out from the sides of the incline.

And he noticed a movement there, way off in the bottom of that culvert. So he stepped towards it. Pushed the brush aside, and looked down.

What he saw stopped his breath. He dropped to the ground immediately, praying they hadn't seen him.

A herd. A massive herd, caught down in that culvert. They must have fallen into it en masse—as if that steep ravine was some kind of rat trap. They were _caught_ in there. He could see the grey shapes moving around, way down at the bottom—wading in and out of the shallow water.

"_Shit…"_

The dead only gradually found a way up from the chasm—a few at a time. They trickled out in a slow flow, and then they wandered the woods aimlessly, in clusters.

_That's_ how the forest got to be full of those scattered walkers. They slowly crept out from the ravine, and into the grey quiet of the winter trees beyond.

* * *

For the second time, Carol stood at the front of the old, Dixon homestead. It looked the same as ever.

But really, she thought _Daryl_ seemed different. The first time they'd come here, together, he'd been nearly frozen in place with fear. But now, as he pulled the bike over in front of the lawn, he didn't stop to think. Grabbed that crowbar, and walked straight into the house.

He was on a mission.

And she ran after him—around the remains of the slain walkers sprawled out in the grass. She stepped over that same severed arm, still lying there on the front walkway.

And then they were inside.

He went straight up the stairs, and she followed him. The dim light was swelling blue over the tired, old walls. On the leaves that had blown in against them, and the dirt.

Carol lingered in the doorway to that upstairs bedroom. Watched him push the bed out of the way. It made a jarring sound against the wood. And his father's footlocker followed, and he was standing there in the middle of the room, looking down at the bare floor.

Carol's hands drifted up over her mouth, then—all on their own. She felt her throat closing up as he put the crowbar in position, and started wrenching the floorboards out of place.

One came loose. Another. He leaned into the work. After a while, he stopped just long enough to shrug off his jacket and throw it in the corner.

The sound of the splintering wood broke the morning quiet. It was loud. Savage. Some birds scattered from a tree outside. Each old board heaved under the force of the crowbar, and then shattered with a crisp, brittle snap. To Carol, it sounded like bones breaking.

Again. Again. He'd stop to throw the broken boards aside, and move back to pull more away. He grunted with the force of it at each go.

And then—all at once—Daryl froze in place. And Carol drifted into the room, towards him. Felt herself pulled there to his side.

She crouched down on the wood, and looked into the dark maw, there.

There was just the corner of something nestled down deep in the dark space below.

Carol leaned in close.

It was a plastic tarp, resting there against the support beams—wrapped around some flowered bed sheets, soaked full over with brownish, dried old blood.

* * *

Carol sank down onto the floor. Sat there with her chin on her knees, and watched Daryl working to open up the grave hidden beneath their feet. He pulled up the floorboards more gently, now—as if he wanted to be careful of the body inside.

It took a long time. But finally, the whole thing was exposed, and Daryl turned away. The crowbar fell out of his slack hand. Hit the wood at his feet. Left a dent.

And he drifted to the far end of the room. Looked out into the trees from the collapsed wall. The sun was slowly rising, and there was a hint of golden light moving out through the branches.

And Carol turned back to that plastic bundle. Knew it was time she took over. He'd done what he could.

So she leaned in, and gently started unwrapping the plastic and the sheeting. And she was there. Rosalie. Still wearing a bloodstained nightdress—half mummified, with her long, brown hair spilling down over her withered shoulders.

And Carol sat there a long time, with Daryl at her back. Looked at Rose's face—the lips had drawn back against the white teeth. Her eyelashes were still intact.

The sunlight streamed in over the room, and caught in Rose's wavy, brown hair. Brought out the highlights in it—strands of red, with some hints of gold.

Finally, Daryl spoke. Didn't turn around.

"He did it."

She could hear him moving around at her back. Pacing. Talking it out—almost to himself.

"Daddy."

And he let out a sigh.

"Of course he did."

But something… something didn't settle for Carol. It didn't feel quite right. So she leaned in over the body, then. Started to look at it, carefully. There was blood—so there had to be _wounds_.

And she probed for them. Pulled the cloth back around Rose, and tried to find them. When she brushed the sheeting away from Rose's arms, she saw it.

"No, Daryl."

He turned around, then. And she looked up at him, steadily.

"No… he _didn't_."

Her arms. Rose's arms. They were slashed open—wrist to elbow. Over and over. Carol touched those wounds. They were deep, hard, merciless cuts that went in straight through the tendons to the bone.

And it all made sense to Carol.

"Your father didn't kill her—and your _brother_ didn't kill her."

She looked up at Daryl from the floorboards.

"She killed _herself_."

* * *

Daryl came to sit beside her, then, on the remains of the bedroom floor. Looked at his mother's torn up arms for a long time, silently.

"I need to do it," Carol said, quoting that last diary entry.

And he finished the line for her.

"I have to…"

And a pause.

"… why?"

Carol turned to him, and a breeze moved through the room from outside.

"Well… she was pregnant. Desperate. Broken… despairing."

"About you—what things were going to be like for you. About Edgar—how he'd never let any of you leave. About the baby—how it would change things to have it in the house."

"And about Merle… about how little she could bring herself to do for Merle."

"And she hated herself for it. All of it. Blamed herself, and felt it all down deep."

"So this—this was the only way out that she could see."

* * *

They listened to the birdsong pouring in from the collapsed wall. And eventually, Daryl spoke up, again. Gestured to the air.

"And what… Daddy decided to bury her here, in the floorboards?"

Carol nodded, slowly, and he let out a breath.

"_God..."_

And Carol thought of Rose's journals. The moment she tried to talk Edgar into letting her take the boys away. She asked if they could go to Sarah's. And he pressed her down on her mattress and—well—he _fucked_ her. There was no other way to put it.

And he talked to her while he did it. Told her exactly what sort of point he was making. Rose described it in her journal. And Carol remembered the words:

_But the whole time—during—he whispered in my ear. Said I can't leave. Said I'd never, ever, ever leave._

Edgar wasn't going to let her go. He needed her with him.

And Carol could see it all happening in her mind, then. Edgar, wondering where Rose had gone off to, late that night. Calling for her and getting no answer. Searching through the house. Walking towards the bathroom, in the dark.

And he'd pushed open the door, and he'd seen her there, in the bathtub, soaked full over with her own blood.

And Carol looked up to Daryl, then. Felt so connected to the story it was like it was moving _through_ her. Like she wasn't really telling it herself—just letting it pass through her body, and into the world.

"Edgar found her after she cut her veins. She'd already bled out. He saw that she was dead, and he was furious."

Carol could _see_ Edgar throwing Rose's things into those cardboard boxes. And he swept her toiletries and perfume bottles in with her lingerie and books and everything else. Her body was still lying in the bathtub when he did it. Carol could _see_ his white rage as he dumped out her drawers and emptied her closets.

What she'd _done_. If Rose wasn't dead already, he might have killed her for it.

"And your mother… she'd gotten _away_—she escaped in the one way that meant he couldn't ever chase her down."

"She was gone and he couldn't get her back. All he had left was the body."

"So… he decided to _keep_ it."

"He told her she'd never leave—_never_. And he made sure of it."

"So he buried her here. And then he buried himself in this room, right along with her."

And she knew it was true. Edgar almost never left this room. Daryl had told her all about that. He slept here. He drank here. Sat on that wooden floor, above Rose.

Stayed with her. At her side. Forever.

* * *

When Carol was done describing what had happened, Daryl let out a long breath.

"So Merle had nothing to do with it."

And Carol thought he sounded deeply relieved about that, for someone who'd been so certain of it the whole time.

And yet she couldn't entirely agree with him. She remembered that prayer card—the one she'd found, and tucked back into place on the mirror when she'd read it.

There was the front, with its gilded lettering:

_I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd gives his life for his sheep._

And then the back, and the chapter and verse his mother wrote in, there. The one Carol looked up in Rose's Bible, with its torn-out pages taped back into place:

_It would be better to be thrown into the sea with a millstone hung around your neck than to cause one of these little ones to fall into sin._

"Merle didn't _know_ about it, Daryl. But that's not the same thing… he didn't kill her, but he had everything—_everything_ to do with it."

* * *

Carol and Daryl stayed there a little while longer, after that. Really, neither of them had any idea what to do, now that they'd found Rose.

And Carol didn't realize it at first, but she had one of Rose's hands entwined in her own. She'd reached out for it without thinking. After all the bloodshed and walkers and bodies she'd seen, the old revulsion for dead things had mostly faded away. And so she found herself touching the body—as if she could comfort it. As if it would make a difference.

The wedding band was still resting on the corpse's finger. Carol spun the ring around, a moment, absently.

And she leaned over. Touched the side of Rose's face. The papery, dried old skin. She'd just been a girl. A fresh-faced, pretty little girl. Carol couldn't really see that in what was left.

And she thought of what Rose had done. It twisted at her gut. It was the ultimate abandonment. She'd given up utterly, and left her children to their fate.

So she pulled away from the body, then. The brown hair brushed against her fingers.

"What do we do now?" she asked. And Daryl tilted his head to the side.

"We bury her… somewhere else—somewhere nice."

He looked down at his mother's face. Spoke over it, quietly.

"She's been here long enough."

* * *

Merle was walking back to the painted lady. It was the only place he could think to go—the only next step he could come up with.

He had to beg them to take him back. If things were different, he'd do just _fine_ out here—had survived countless threats on his own, before _and_ after the dead rose up. But things weren't different. He was falling apart.

And if he was honest, he knew he needed to be around people if he was going to survive. In the best of circumstances, Merle was shit at being alone.

So he'd go there. He'd promise to behave. He'd ask them to just give him somewhere he could sleep, for a while.

His throat was tight with utter humiliation.

But he had no choice. And they didn't know what he'd done—that he'd set those walkers on the quarry. _None_ of them knew. So they might just let him come back.

And Daryl would be there. He'd make them listen.

And then it would be ok.

* * *

Carol and Daryl went back to the painted lady, and found Rick drinking his coffee on the front porch—all alone. He spent most of his time alone, nowadays.

And Carol went up to him. She thought he might help them move Rose. Might help dig a grave. So she explained everything to him, quietly, while Daryl hovered in the yard, looking out into the trees.

* * *

Merle couldn't bring himself to walk up to the painted lady. Not directly. Not from the front. So he came in from the woods. From the side.

Part of him was afraid—afraid they'd shoot him down if they saw him walking towards them head-on.

So Merle hid in the forest by the side of the house. Stood there in the tangled briars for a very long time. He didn't know what to do. How to go to them. What he could possibly say.

And then there was a movement on the other side of the fence. It was Daryl. Daryl coming right towards him.

For a moment, Merle thought he'd seen him—and his muscles tightened and he felt a thrill of fear shoot through his chest.

But he hadn't. He was just out in the yard, pacing back and forth. About twenty feet away. He walked past, and Merle watched him from the other side of the fence. Listened to his feet on the winter grass. Watched him walking away, again—wearing that leather vest with the wings.

His vest.

And Daryl turned on his heels. Walked back towards Merle again, looking down at the ground. At the roots of the oak trees that lined the wrought island fence. He was thinking hard.

And Merle almost called out to him, then. But he didn't. He'd noticed some more movement in the yard—way off in the background.

It was Rick and that woman, talking together. Beyond them, he could see the bike, parked out on the grass.

His bike.

And that woman—she turned, and headed right for Daryl. Merle looked into her face while she did it. And there was something _about_ it—something about her clear, blue eyes. He'd been having some considerable trouble figuring why his brother fell into bed with this one. She seemed so grey and insipid and matronly.

But right then, looking into her face, Merle reconsidered. She really was beautiful.

She came over—that woman, and stopped right by the fence. And Daryl turned to her. They were right under an old, oak tree. Not as tall as the one at Aunt Sarah's house, but a fine example of the species.

"Come on," she said, softly, "It's time to go—Rick's going to help out. We can take the truck, so it'll be easier to… well, you know."

And Daryl nodded. Seemed real tense about something. He was hanging onto the strap of his crossbow, staring into the ground.

"Hey," she said, reaching out to him. She touched his free arm.

"It's you and me."

Merle wasn't sure he'd heard her right, the first time. But she said it again.

"You and me."

_His_ words—Merle's words.

He'd said that to Daryl, over and over throughout the years. Countless times.

_You and me, baby brother. It's you and me._

And she took Daryl's hand, then, squeezed it a moment. Let go.

They were his words. One of the few real things Merle had ever had. They came from the center of him. He didn't have many things like that. Real things. Most of them had something or other to do with Daryl.

So those words had become a sort of mantra for Merle, over the years. Every so often, he'd say them to Daryl. It was like pulling teeth to get him to ever say them back.

She looked up at his brother, and smiled a small smile. She seemed very beautiful to Merle, then. Luminous. She stepped away, back towards the house. Said one more word to Daryl, while she did it.

"Always."

* * *

And so Daryl and Carol took Rick back with them, to his daddy's house. In the truck, so he could help move the body.

The men carried the body down the stairs, and Carol watched from the living room below.

And they loaded Rose in the back of the truck. Took her out of that place forever. Rick and Daryl sat together in the cab, and Carol rode in the truck bed, beside the body.

They thought and thought about where to bury Rose. Talked about it, all together. In the end, they decided they'd take her to the willow grove. To the oxbow in the creek.

And once they buried her—laid her down in that quiet ground—Daryl stood over the grave, with Carol at his side.

And he wished that Merle was there. Wanted to take him walking along the edge of the creek, like they used to do when they were younger. He wanted to stand out on the banks of the water, and tell his brother what happened to their mama.

And then they'd walk to the oxbow—down in the willow garden, together. And he'd show Merle where he'd buried her.

Daryl wanted to do it. And the next time they saw each other, he decided that he would.

* * *

Merle went off into the woods, for a while. Walked on the soft, decaying leaves. His feet were silent on that thick carpet.

And so he drifted around. Wandered the trees aimlessly, like the walkers did.

And he felt there wasn't much difference between him and them. He felt like he was already dead.

He killed a few of them as they came at him. Soon, he found himself compelled to hunt them out—and then, as he chased more down, he realized he wanted to hurt them as much as he possibly could.

He'd plow in their brains with rocks. One after another, again and again.

Later, he sat one one's chest. Took out his knife, and hacked off its legs at the knees. It took a long time to do it. And he left it sprawled out on the ground, crawling. And the next one—he took its head the same way. Watched it snapping hungrily in the dirt.

Eventually, he kicked the head out of the way—down a slope and into some underbrush. And he sat down on the soft, forest floor. Breathed hard, and listened to the wind blow.

Hours passed. And a movement in front of him made him look up.

There was a doe standing before him, with a yearling fawn at her side.

They'd survived the woods—all the walkers in it. The hungry, grey shapes wandering around in the trees. And now they'd come on Merle. They stood there, looking at him face to face.

The doe startled when he shifted on the fallen leaves. She looked right at him. Stamped the ground soundlessly, with one delicate hoof.

And when he stood, she froze. And he watched her wide, lovely eyes staring at him. She didn't move, and didn't run. Just looked.

So he pulled his .38, and shot her.

The bullet hit her right in the face, and she crumpled to the ground. Her yearling startled, and bolted off into the grey distance.

_Be a man, Merle._

Merle was so very, very tired—exhausted to the point of nausea.

He had the strangest feeling that his time was running out.

And standing there with the gunfire echoing out in the still air, he knew there was only one thing left for him to do.


	16. Kiss the Girls and Make them Cry

_Here we are, at the beginning of the end. I will warn you that there are some disturbing themes and violence in this section. I am including a trigger warning for its discussion of sexual abuse. Be advised of this content before moving forward. Also, I am having some seemingly irresolvable formatting issues. I apologize that some of the section breaks just will not appear no matter what I do. They manifest as larger spaces between lines. I hope it isn't too confusing._

_Please, please, please don't throw rocks at me for anything that may happen here—I remind you there are four more chapters, and we have a long way to go. Trust me, trust me__—I've had this thing planned out since day one, and I'm going somewhere with this!_

* * *

_Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry:_

They returned to the painted lady just as the clouds started to roll in. There was a smell of rain in the air, and a warm fog moving over the grass. It carpeted the woods beyond the iron fence. Brought out the rich, grey colors of the bark, and of the lichen clinging to the tall branches.

Rick left Daryl and Carol at the front door. Walked around the porch, and into the backyard. So Carol found herself standing in the doorway next to Daryl, alone.

They stopped there, and looked at each other. And Carol found that she just didn't have the words for everything they'd been through. Everything they'd seen. But she knew he wasn't the sort of man who needed words.

Everyone else must have been in the back rooms, or in the upper levels of the house. It was all very quiet. She could hear the soft wind on the window panes, and a bird calling somewhere outside.

"We did it," she said, at last.

She put a hand to her temple. Looked down, and gestured to the air.

"We figured it out. After everything…"

And Daryl—he just raised her chin, lightly, with one finger. Leaned in, and kissed her. And he touched her face, and Carol smiled.

And then he left her there, without a word. Went up the stairs. As she watched him go, she felt a familiar, deep pull towards him—one that had grown slowly over the months they'd come to know each other. She could still feel the press of his lips lingering lightly on her own.

And he followed the sweeping curve of the stairwell, and disappeared.

* * *

After Daryl left, Carol stood alone in the front parlor. Stayed there a very long time. She wasn't really sure what to do with herself, after everything that had happened that morning. After finding Rose, and digging that grave.

She could hear Beth singing while washing dishes in the kitchen.

_When I left my father's house, I was well supplied  
__But I made a mistake, and I did wrong—and I'm dissatisfied  
_So _I believe I'll go back home—acknowledge I done wrong_

And Carol drifted into the hall—following the sound of Beth's sweet, faltering soprano. The sound of the dishes clattering in her hands. And then she watched her from the door.

_I'll go back my father's house—I'll fall down on my face  
__Say that I'm unworthy to seek a servant's place  
__I'll go back my father's house—the place I love so dear  
__There they have food to eat—and I'm a-starvin' here_

And looking at Beth, she thought of what might have been if Sophia had lived. If she'd made it a few years longer, she might have looked a bit like Beth did. All blond hair and sweet, blue eyes—like a girl out of a Botticelli fresco. And the two of them—Sophia and Beth. They might have come to be friends.

_Father saw him comin', and met him with a smile  
__Threw his arms around him—said 'This is my wanderin' child'  
__And Father said to Servant, 'Go kill the fatted calf—  
__Invite both friends and relatives—my son's come home at last._

Beth looked up, then. Saw Carol in the doorway, and smiled. And Carol saw Sophia in that smile.

"Let me get you some more water," Carol said, stepping around the butcher block table. She took one of the buckets they'd been using, and headed for the side door.

"I'll be right back."

* * *

Merle was sitting on top of a glacial boulder at the edge of the treeline. He was near the painted lady. Just far enough off that he couldn't see what was going on there—so that they couldn't see _him_, on the off chance they were looking.

His clothes were stained with dirt and the blood of the walkers he'd killed. And he was very, very tired.

While he was walking around the woods, he searched his jacket restlessly—he'd been pretty sure he was out of cigarettes, but he just kept looking on the off chance he missed something. And when he found one in the very bottom of one pocket, he'd practically dropped to his knees and thanked God for it.

So he perched there at the top of that great, old rock with the cigarette in hand, and watched the smoke rise up from his fingers, into the air.

* * *

When Carol stepped out onto the back porch, she saw Rick leaning against the railing, looking off into the fog. She wasn't sure what he was thinking about. She stepped around him without a word and went for the water pump.

But he called after her.

"Carol," Rick said. And she turned to him. And that's when she saw it. A movement at the side of the house.

The first of the walkers, creeping through the grass towards where she stood.

Her hands went slack, and the bucket fell soundlessly onto the winter moss.

Rick hadn't seen them, yet—they were at his back, and he was looking down into the grass. So he kept talking.

"Look, Carol—you and I—we need to clear the air about some—"

Rick raised his head, saw the look on her face, and cut himself off. Saw a movement a moment later, and realized what was happening.

They were close to the sides of the porch. At least a dozen. Probably more. And one saw Rick, there, and started to groan. Started to paw at the wood—trying to climb its way up to him.

None of them had noticed Carol, yet.

And Rick was gesturing to her. Mouthing words to her silently and waving towards the back fence. Even at that distance, she understood what he was saying.

_Go—go—go. _

She nodded. Turned just as Rick jumped the porch railing—moving in to face them. She ran for the far edge of the yard. When she heard the first gunshots, she didn't turn back.

There was the sound of feet in the grass, and the throttled groans of the dead—creeping closer. They'd seen her, now. And Rick started shouting at them.

"Come _on!_ Over here! _Right here!"_

He was drawing them away from her. Towards himself.

And Carol knew what he wanted her to do. So she found her footing, and started climbing over that old, iron fence to make her escape.

* * *

It was a while before Merle heard the first gunshots. They echoed out from the direction of the painted lady.

Apparently, what he'd done had worked.

He always thought these things _wouldn't_ work. Couldn't _possibly_ work. But he seemed to have astounding luck when it came to the walkers. They never seemed to get the upper hand on him, and he always seemed to be able to get them to do whatever he wanted them to do.

First off, they didn't kill him on that rooftop when he had to saw off his own fucking _hand_—when he was just about dead from blood loss. He'd survived against any set of odds he could possibly imagine. And then, later that day, the walkers followed him around like fucking baby geese when he set them on the camp at the quarry.

And it went the same way the next time—with Timmy—when they used the walkers to wipe out that group of strangers a while back. When they'd stolen their stash of drugs—it'd been easy as anything.

It worked just as well with Jenny, under the oak tree. And it worked today.

He'd led some of those walkers from the ravine in the woods—not all of them by a long shot, but enough. And it was just as easy as before. He'd used his car at first, and then he drew them further along on foot from a safe distance.

It was as if the walkers _understood_ him. As if they saw something in him—something like them. And so they'd follow him, and do what he anticipated, and fight his battles for him.

He heard another shot sounding in the air. Held the stub of his cigarette in his hand. Looked at it.

The only time Merle had much in the way of luck was when he was trying to kill something.

He thought he'd feel better, now. Now that he'd paid those assholes back in full. But he didn't. Really, he didn't feel much of anything.

More gunshots echoed around him—strange and muffled in the warm fog. He found he didn't want to listen to them.

So he stamped the stub out on the granite, jumped down from his perch, and walked off into the woods.

* * *

Daryl was pacing around in his bedroom. He'd meant to spend the afternoon cleaning his guns. But after everything that happened, he hadn't been able to focus.

And a movement caught his eye outside, and he went to the window. A cold wave shot through his body. There were dozens of dead in the yard.

"Jesus _Christ…"_

He grabbed his gun bags and bolted down the stairs. Halfway down, he heard a girlish scream from below. Beth. An instant later, a window in the kitchen shattered.

He reached the bottom just in time to see Hershel pulling Beth from the kitchen, and forcing the door closed against a shape that had crawled through the window—something dead that was trying to grab her.

Hershel braced the door, and Beth moved a chair to block it. There were tears on her face.

Daryl spun around. Didn't see anyone else. He moved towards the back parlor.

"_Lori!"_

She was already in her doorway—Carl at her side. He could see the silhouettes of bodies lurching around behind the drawn window shades in Lori's bedroom.

Lori was checking out that little revolver of hers— must have spent the whole winter with that thing tucked in a nearby drawer or hidden under her pillow. And Carl was counting their ammunition, and tucking what he could into a small shoulder bag.

Daryl leaned in to her. Hissed under his breath.

"Where _is_ everyone?"

Lori looked at him blankly.

"Uhm… I—"

"Ain't no one on _watch?"_

She shook her head.

"Glenn and Maggie went out on a run with T-Dog… I think they got sick of waiting for you to come back."

"Then where's _Rick?"_

Her face was blank and unreadable. She didn't know.

And in that moment, the gunshots rang out from the yard. It had to be Rick. But they couldn't get to him—not with the dead crowding all over the porch. The house was surrounded.

Daryl paused a moment. Had trouble asking her about the last name on his mental list.

"Carol…?"

"I'm sorry," Lori said.

"I haven't seen her."

* * *

Carol dropped to the forest floor on the far side of the fence. She could hear the sounds of the dead, now, inside the yard behind her. The moans, and the shuffling feet. Rick was still calling to them—Carol thought he might be trying to guide them away from the house.

She scanned the distance—knew she wasn't safe, yet. There were walkers all _over_ this woods. But the grey mist made it hard to see if anything was coming for her through the trees.

As she turned away, a hand reached through the fence. Grabbed at her jacket. And another. They pulled her back, and she screamed. Tugged hard against those dead hands. Others joined them, straining for her from the other side of the fence.

She tried to work her way out of her jacket as they clutched at it. Struggled to get her arms free from the sleeves. And finally, it came loose. And they kept pulling at the thing for a moment—didn't understand she wasn't there. And it got snagged in the fence, and hung there, stained with the black, rotting putrid blood from the walkers' hands.

And Carol darted out of their reach, and watched them a moment, snarling at her from a few yards away—arms outstretched and straining, with the wrought iron vines obscuring their faces.

But she didn't have long to contemplate them. She heard a sound from the side, and spun around.

More. More from the woods–drawn by the gunfire. Three, moving steadily towards her through the trees. From the way they were moving, she knew they'd seen her.

The gunfire echoed out on the forest floor. One of the dead collapsed limply onto the side of the fence—shot through the skull.

Rick had to be heading for her—must have given up the hopeless task of guiding them away. And he couldn't possibly make it back inside the house with the dead all around him like that.

And Carol numbly admitted to herself that she couldn't rely on Rick to protect her—he might not live long enough to reach her side. And the three from the woods were almost on top of her. They'd get her if she stayed.

So there was only one choice.

Carol turned and ran—unarmed and alone—off into the trees.

* * *

Daryl led Carl and Lori towards the stairs. The safest thing to do would be to get them holed up in the attic. Then he could go looking for Carol.

The three of them reached the stairwell just as the front windows started to shatter, one after the other. Arms started clawing their way in—heedless of the shards of glass in their way. And further off, he could hear other windows breaking in the back rooms of the house.

Hershel and Beth were just behind the three of them, but it wasn't enough. In an instant, the bodies started pouring in, and they were separated.

Daryl saw it, and met Hershel's eyes. Threw his gun bag to Hershel just as the dead started to pass through. Daryl would stick to his .44, or the crossbow.

The dead were on the move, and Beth started to scream. Hershel clapped one hand over her mouth. Pulled her into the curve of the stairwell, where the walkers couldn't see them. And Daryl could only assume Hershel was planning to secret her away towards the basement. They could hide down there, and block the door.

But there was no more time to think about them. The dead were coming straight for them. So Daryl opened fire.

He didn't know how long it lasted. Every time they found a chance, they'd move a bit further up the stairs.

As he turned the first corner, he fired into the press below.

One of the stray bullets hit the newel post—the face carved there—and it exploded. Shattered into raw splinters all over the floorboards.

* * *

Carol crouched low in the brush, down on the side of a hill. She was watching the dead moving around above, trying to figure out where she'd gone.

Eventually, one of them drifted off and away into the mist. And there were only two searching for her up there. They were slowly circling around, moving downhill. Closing in.

They were hunting her.

That feeling was so familiar—she'd known it all her life. The sickening, cold numbness. And she felt that same, old terror rising up in her gut all over again. It tried to take over and shut her down and make her freeze in place.

It felt like drowning. Soon she would slip under that icy water, and she'd be lost.

She shook her head.

_"No."_

She fought against it. Struggled to keep her head up. She couldn't just let these things take her. She had to fight.

She could hear the dead coming. The strange, scraping sounds coming out of their throats. They were close—just about thirty feet above her, now. She could see their legs in the brush from where she was pressed against the ground.

"I am _not_ going to die," she whispered. She needed to convince herself of it. Clear her head.

And Carol looked around, then, and found a hefty stone. She knew she wasn't _close_ to strong enough to attack them with it—not two at once.

But there was more than one way to do this.

And so she threw the stone as far as she could—off towards the other side of the hill. It rolled down though the underbrush. Tore its way through the tangled briars. The sound made the dead stop in their tracks. They turned. Started heading in that direction—away from her.

So Carol moved out of her hiding place as quietly as she could, and slipped off into the fog.

* * *

Daryl, Carl, and Lori backed into a landing as the walkers pushed forward. And Daryl kicked at the first one's chest. It fell. Knocked a few of the others down around it. Bought them some time.

Daryl needed to reload, so Lori and Carl covered him. And he talked at them while he did it.

"We got a goddamned iron _gate_… ain't no way the geeks are smart enough to work the latch."

"How could this fucking _happen?"_

Lori gave him a silent look, then. It was Carl who spoke up.

"Daryl," he said, "It _had_ to be your brother."

Daryl stopped loading his weapon, then. Froze in place.

"I mean… everyone's been talking about him being in town and it seems like something he could do, right?"

Carl paused, aimed into that crowd, and fired. Then he started on up again.

"Maybe he set that herd at the quarry on us, too."

A pause, filled with the sounds of the dead.

"… Daryl?"

He didn't respond.

The dead had righted themselves, and were on them. So Daryl lunged forward and hit the closest with the butt of his .44. Snarled at it, and beat its head against the stair rail before falling back to Lori and Carl, up into the next level of stairs.

* * *

Carol made it to the treeline. The area looked familiar to her, but she wasn't sure precisely where she'd ended up.

And there were more on her heels, now—there _always_ seemed to be more. Every time she managed to lose some, a few more found her, and started up the chase all over again.

And this time, out in the open, she had no choice but to make a run for it. And as she crested the hill, she saw the stone walls of the cemetery materialize out of the fog. It had a large, iron gate—not unlike the one at the painted lady.

And she headed for it, and they followed her. Seven or eight, by now. She couldn't fight them off. If they caught her, she'd be dead.

_I am not going to die._

She made it to the gate, and tried to throw it closed. Threw her weight against the press of arms closing in from the other side. She grabbed at the bars, and beat at grasping, dead fingers with the gate. The grey skin started splitting against the force of the blows.

And she heard someone screaming—shouting at them incoherently—and realized it was her.

Finally, the gate fell shut, and she pulled the latch into place. And she immediately sank onto the grass. Ignored the hands rattling at the bars behind her. Caught her breath, sprawled out there. Whispered to herself, down into the earth.

"I am _not_ going to die."

And she started walking, carefully and quietly, through the cemetery paths. Past the wide swath of civil war stones and into a larger space, full of Victorian statues and small, stone crypts. She had no idea where to go—it seemed like nowhere was safe.

A motion caught her eye, and she gasped—sure something was about to grab her. But it wasn't more dead—not yet. It was a flutter of wings. Large old crows, perched on a granite angel. The statue was smiling, with her arms outstretched. The mangled remains of a dead walker were caught there. There was an obvious gunshot on its pale forehead.

One of those birds ripped a piece of flesh from the corpse's cheek, and swallowed it whole. Looked up at her, and cawed.

The sound echoed through the cemetery, out through the choking fog.

* * *

Merle lingered by the oxbow in the creek—in among the willow trees. He could tell from the light it was getting later. The sun would go down, soon.

He spent some time throwing small stones across the water. He'd always been good at making them skip. Tried to teach Daryl, one summer. But he never really had the knack for it.

He ran out of stones, and looked around for some more—they needed to be really flat to work right. And he saw some dried chicory clinging around the banks of the water. Sheltered in the tall, dead grass.

It made him think of Joellen. Of how she had a sprig of chicory in her hand, right before he killed her.

And about a month before that, he'd been on a supply run with Jenny. And on that run, they found what amounted to the holy fucking grail. A bottle of forty-year-old Dalmore single malt scotch. It would have cost upwards of three thousand dollars back before the world went to shit. And it was just sitting there in the store case, completely untouched. Most things even remotely like that had been looted out long ago—but not this.

This had been waiting just for them.

And when they brought it back to his aunt's house, Joellen immediately went to work on it. Opened the bottle right on up.

"No point in savin' it," she'd said. And she was right.

They didn't have much in the way of glassware, so Joellen just brought the bottle around to everyone by turns. And she brought it to Merle first out of everybody. Held the bottle up to his lips. And the taste of that rare, fine scotch washed over him—a warm wave of peat and oak and old, rich earth. The flavor bloomed through his mouth even after he'd swallowed it.

And Joellen was still there beside him, smiling in that shy way she had. So he leaned in and kissed her—right on the lips.

It was just a small, friendly sort of thing.

He'd done it because she was so pretty. Because he wanted to feel something.

But whatever he'd been looking for was hard to capture. It was elusive, and moved swiftly out of his reach. He'd felt just a taste of it—on the scotch, and the girl's lips, and then it was gone.

Merle shook the memory away. Threw another stone, and watched it glide over the water.

And standing there, in the willow grove, he heard a strange sound. Far away, from the direction of the old cemetery.

A woman, screaming.

* * *

There were more walkers scattered in the cemetery. It was no surprise to Carol, because there were _always_ more. She sped up—tried to evade them as best she could. Moved on and on through the stones—doubling back, sometimes, to confuse them. But there were more, and more. She'd lose a few and run across others. And so she found herself giving up, and running as fast as she could. She knew there were at least two at her heels, but she couldn't stop to count them.

And the cemetery opened up to the creek, and she found herself in the willow grove, again. She could hear the dead moving in the fog. They were getting close, and she was getting exhausted.

As she moved through oxbow, she thought she might have lost them. She'd turned sharply into the willow grove—and with how hard it was to see in the heavy mist, they might have just kept on following the creek. They might have left her behind.

So she looked around, quiet and apprehensive.

She'd just reached Rosalie's freshly dug grave when one of them lurched out from the fog—from behind the shelter of the draping tree branches. And she spun around. Another was right on top of her, coming in from the other side.

They were too close. And they never gave up. Never got tired. The first one grabbed her arm, and the other starting closing in. And she screamed—struggled. Tried to pull away.

But she knew it was too late.

A noise rang out in the air, and the dead hands went slack. Let go. The body fell to the ground.

A gunshot.

An instant later, there was another. She spun around, and saw that the other was dead. Shot, and sprawled out on the grass.

She looked out into the fog. Saw the outline of someone standing there. A man.

"Rick…?"

Nothing.

He holstered his handgun left handed, and Carol started getting nervous.

"… Daryl?"

"No, honey."

And he stepped forward, and she found herself face to face with Merle, at last.

"No—it's just us."

He chuckled a little, under his breath—not unkindly, really. As if he appreciated that chance had brought them together. Thought it was funny, in its way. He smiled a little smile, and shook his head.

"You and me," he said.

* * *

Finally, Daryl dropped the trap door, and they were safe. He turned, then, and saw Lori wincing, leaning against one of the steamer trunks. Clinging to her swollen, pregnant belly. When she saw him turn, she tried to hide it. But Daryl had no patience for bullshit.

"Labor?"

She sighed.

"It might be, but it's too soon to tell."

And Carl darted up, at that.

"_Mom…"_

"It's ok, baby," she said, touching his hair, "We're safe up here."

"Glenn and Maggie and T-Dog'll be back soon. They'll figure out a way to draw them off. Then they'll go look for—"

She cut herself off. Like she didn't want to say his father's name name. Or Carol's.

Daryl drifted to one of those leaded glass, rose windows. Looked out in the front yard. There were shapes on the porch. In the grass, here and there.

And then he went to the other side—to the window where that walker pinned Carol before Carl killed it. The golf club he'd used was still lying out on the attic floor.

And he saw something.

Off in the backyard, way down below. Carol's coat, caught on the fence. He pressed against the glass, and his gut went cold.

A movement. Lori was right there behind him. She'd seen it, too.

He turned to her. Had trouble meeting her eyes. She touched his arm. Nodded.

"Go," she said. Her face was hard and resolute.

"We'll be ok. Go."

So he broke the window, climbed out onto the slate tiles beneath it. Perched there, out on the gabled roof in the swelling fog.

He looked out into the trees from that high vantage. Scanned for any sign of Carol. But there was nothing.

So he climbed down the gutter. Dropped onto the roof overhanging the porch. Looked up, once, and saw Lori leaning out of that window, watching him from above.

And he leapt to a sturdy branch on the nearest oak tree—above the walkers' heads. And then he jumped onto the forest floor on the other side of the fence.

* * *

Carol stood there in front of Merle. Rosalie's grave was between them. They were on opposite sides of its loose, freshly dug earth.

And she tried to talk to him.

"Have you seen any of the others?"

He shook his head, silently.

"There's a herd… a big one. It got in the house—I jumped the fence before I could see how many there were."

She wrapped her arms around herself—now that she'd stopped running, she was realizing how cold it was.

"I think it's pretty bad, this time..."

He just kept looking at her. Didn't say anything. And she started getting nervous. Kept talking.

"We… we should go there. See what we can do."

"You know these woods. You can show me the way back..."

He stepped forward, and she felt herself tighten. She moved to the side. He moved with her, and soon they were circling each other.

"Rick… Rick will be here any minute. He had to be right on my heels."

Still he said nothing. It was starting to bother her—she couldn't read his face. There was something really wrong with him and she couldn't figure out what it was.

"He must have heard the gunshots. He'll come running."

He moved closer, and she flinched. And that seemed to upset him. He didn't _want_ her to flinch when he came for her.

"Merle…"

She backed up. Lost her footing on a patch of loose earth, and fell flat on her back.

The grave—Rosalie's grave. She'd fallen right on top of it. And he was hovering over her, then.

He took her by the throat. Picked her whole body off the ground one-handed. He was very strong. And before she knew it, he had her pinned against one of the willow trees.

And she had trouble breathing as he held her there, looking her over. She tried to speak, and couldn't.

He leaned in close. Tilted his head to the side. Loosened his grip a little.

"What was that?"

"I am _not_ going to die."

Something about it. What she said—it did something to him. And before she knew what was happening, he pushed forward, and kissed her. Pressed his lips against hers. She shifted against the tree and tried to pull away, but she didn't have any purchase.

And part of her—part of her was absolutely certain he'd start pawing at her clothes then. But he didn't. He stayed close, and clutched at her throat, and closed it off completely so she couldn't speak again.

* * *

Carol was fifteen years old, and she was digging around in the cedar chest for her mother's good tablecloth. She'd already gotten out the silver, and was working to set the table.

And she could smell the pies in the oven and the gravy simmering and the turkey cooling on the kitchen counter. The adults were in the living room with something to drink before dinner. But she wasn't old enough to join them.

Carol spent most Thanksgivings babysitting her little cousins. Chasing after them and keeping them out of trouble. For some reason or other Carol couldn't remember later, they weren't there that year.

So she was trying to keep herself busy other ways. Trying to stay as invisible as possible. It wasn't difficult, really, since she was pretty much invisible to begin with.

It was one of those holidays—the bad ones that never seem to end. Her grandmother was on a tear. Carol could hear it in the tone of her voice, echoing down the hallway. She was going after Carol's dad about something or other. Telling him to help her with something in the kitchen. And as usual, he silently did whatever she said. Later, Carol could hear her complaining that he'd ruined whatever it was she'd had him doing.

Carol sighed. It was nice in the back hallway, with all those voices far off in the distance. She lingered over the cedar chest, in that peace and quiet. Didn't want to go back and have to listen to everyone talk for a whole dinner.

But she had to. So she turned around.

Her father was in the hallway. And he looked at her.

She hugged the folded tablecloth and linen napkins against her chest. As if she could shield herself from that look.

But looking wasn't enough this time. No, he needed to take more.

And before she knew it, he'd pushed her against the wall. She struggled, a moment—so he grabbed her harder—had her by the throat. And he was close. Close enough she was coated with the stink flowing from his mouth. Olives, vermouth, and gingivitis.

And his free hand was on her blouse. Grabbing at her with his hot breath on her face, and she was helpless. Helpless.

And that helplessness sank deep inside her. She carried it with her everywhere she went. It grew there like an unborn child.

It stayed with her every day—right up until she found herself with another man, and his hand around her throat.

* * *

Merle leaned in against her windpipe, and Carol couldn't breathe.

Somewhere up above, there was a movement. And she raised her eyes to follow it—looked up, away from Merle's face. His blue eyes.

Somehow, to Carol, even with his hand clenched tight on her throat, he didn't really matter.

The winter willows were full of birds. She could see them up above. Blackbirds. And they scattered into the air all at once, together, as if they shared a single mind. And then they were gone—up into the grey sky. Out into the mist, and the fading of the light.

And in that moment, she remembered her father. Thought of that Thanksgiving, so many years before. What he did. _Everything_ he did. She was standing in front of her bedroom mirror, after that last piano recital. She was at the laundry line with the thunder rolling in. She was in hallways and behind closed doors and his hands were all over her and it was secret, secret, secret. And Ed was there. And the walkers were there. And death was there.

She was dizzy with the memories—a whole flock of them, whirling around inside her head.

And looking up into the sky, Carol finally let them go. They scattered. Flew out from her. Faded away like so many birds flying out into the fog.

A moment later, everything else faded away with them.


	17. Out of the Blue

_Chapter Seventeen for you all, today—a lot going on here. _

_Again, there's considerable violence in this chapter. And again, I will remind you there are three more chapters to go, and a lot of ground to cover in them. I'm having trouble keeping these down to a reasonable word count._

_I hope the formatting issues are solved, but I can't say I'm confident about it. Sometimes the breaks between sections manifest as larger spaces between lines. Don't ask me why. I've contacted support about the problem. I do hope it won't be confusing. I can't seem to do anything about it._

_Until next time. I'm going to do my best to get this story done before the season 3 premiere—at which point I'd rather focus on taking in the new story, rather than writing about the old._

* * *

_Out of the Blue:_

Carol opened her eyes to complete darkness. She had no idea where she was or what had happened. There was silence, and the feeling of movement, and deep shadows. And it came to her that her face was pressed against something—a seat cushion. She moved, then. Looked up. The late afternoon light stabbed at her eyes. Her head was aching and her throat was sore.

She was slumped in the seat of a car—a moving car. And still she couldn't piece together what was going on. She looked around. Saw Merle at the wheel, staring vacantly out down the long road.

Then she remembered.

Carol tried to clear her throat.

"Hello, Merle."

He nodded in her direction.

"You're up."

"What," Carol said, "No hello?"

He smiled a little at that. Like he appreciated her tone. Like it took him by surprise.

"_Hello_, sweetheart."

She tilted her head to the side.

"…you don't know my _name_, do you?"

He shrugged.

"Sorry."

"It's Carol," she said.

"Peletier."

"Well then hello, _Carol Peletier."_

He turned to look at her. Raised an eyebrow.

"We good now?"

"Splendid. Thank you."

He turned back to the road, and they fell into an awkward silence.

She wasn't sure why he'd taken her with him—why he didn't kill her right then and there or leave for dead in the grass. She wasn't sure if _he_ knew why. To Carol, he didn't seem like he was thinking ahead. Just reacting.

And Merle—he kept turning towards her as he drove along—looking her over. As if he was about to say something, but couldn't find the right words.

* * *

Daryl stood in the forest, at the side of the iron fence. The dead in the yard strained for him—pushing against the rails. He ignored them. Stared intently at the leaves and pine needles and disturbed earth.

A lot had happened, here.

The tracks on the ground told the story. Carol jumped the fence. Found herself in a scuffle out back.

Some geeks took chase—their movements were much less regular and he could tell the difference at a glance.

She'd had to run—out into the trees.

Then there was Rick. Rick's tracks overlaid the rest. So he'd gone after Carol—probably had some sense of the direction she'd taken.

Daryl stepped away from the fence—from the arms reaching out for him there. They were tangled up together, with Carol's coat caught in their midst.

He started tracing her footsteps, coldly afraid he'd be too late.

* * *

Carol watched Merle drive around for a long time. The afternoon light started to fade outside the car window—grew long and low and strange as it filtered through the clouds.

Something had changed in Carol, since she woke. She could feel it. It wasn't just the pain. It was something else.

She wasn't afraid. Not anymore.

So she pushed herself upright on her palms. Found herself surprised that Merle hadn't bound her hands.

She was completely free.

So she settled into the passenger seat. Rubbed her throbbing temples, and looked up at him, sitting beside her.

"You didn't tie me up."

He shrugged.

And she realized from the look on his face that he saw no _reason_ to. Figured she wasn't capable of doing anything to fight him off.

"But I guess—"

She fell into a spasm of wracking coughs. Her throat was complaining against speaking so much.

And then she nodded to his right arm—to the stump propped up on the steering wheel.

"I guess you wouldn't be tying any _knots_, would you."

* * *

Daryl reached the edge of the forest. Moved swiftly and silently—evading the walkers when he could. Killing them quickly and efficiently when he couldn't.

There had been a good number of dead on Carol's trail. Maybe eight, all told.

And he realized what she'd done. The cemetery. She'd headed for the cemetery. She could block herself in, there. Find a place to hide.

_Good girl._

He started to get hopeful, then—thought he might be about to find her, perhaps sheltered in one of the crypts—waiting for him to come after her, with Rick at her side.

He moved over the open land. At the closed gate, he saw how she'd fought the dead off. He could still see some of the crushed skin and bone fragments splattered on the side of the iron.

And she didn't give up after that—just kept pressing on.

He stood there a moment—one hand on the iron bars.

She'd done so well.

* * *

Carol started coughing again. Doubled over. When she recovered, she noticed something. Nodded in Merle's direction.

"Your gaslight's on."

Merle didn't say anything, but she noticed his eyes dropping to the fuel gauge. He grunted. Seemed annoyed he hadn't noticed it himself.

"Where are we going, anyway?"

Still nothing. So Carol kept pushing him.

"Hey—I think I recognize that farmhouse over there. Are you driving in _circles?"_

He slammed his hand against the steering wheel, then.

"Don't you ever fucking _shut _your fucking _mouth?"_

* * *

There were more dead crawling all over the cemetery. She'd run right into another trap.

Daryl went cold.

He leaned against the side of a tombstone. One of the tall ones with an elaborate, granite plinth and scrolling columns. He felt raw panic trying to take over. Pushed it violently away, and tried to focus.

This was bad.

By this point, she must have been downright exhausted. And she was completely _unarmed_. He'd given her that .38 special, but he hadn't seen it again since.

At the time, he decided to take a light touch with that revolver—something that did not precisely come naturally for him. But he forced himself to do it. Because she wasn't like Merle—you had to at least _try_ to be gentle with her. And he really thought she'd come around, eventually.

It was fucking stupid.

So in the end, all he'd given her were those damned journals. Because he wanted to know what happened to his mama, and was too damned afraid to read them himself.

A grey, dead thing approached him, groaning. He seized it by the shoulders and threw it against the granite plinth. Stabbed it through the eye. Did it again. Again. Shouted at its face and watched it fall.

Then he stood in the quiet. Thought of Carol sitting with those journals all those evenings, reading them by the light of a single candle.

Solving that mystery meant _fuck-all_ to him, now that she was lost. Now that she was out here, alone, with no weapon. Nothing to fight with, because all he'd given her were some useless fucking _books_.

* * *

Carol watched through the window as Merle siphoned gas from some abandoned cars. They were out on the farm roads, in the open fields. She wouldn't be able to make much of a run for it out here. He was a good shot, it was still light, and there was no cover.

So she watched him work, and leaned her head against the glass.

And she thought about what he'd been like as a child. How he looked in the portraits Rose drew.

Her sketches of Merle were usually drawn from afar. Merle on a tree branch, watching the birds. Merle on the back step, playing with one of those trucks. Merle at the creek's edge, skipping rocks on the water. He'd always be _doing_ something—and Rose would draw him from some ways off. She was probably hoping he wouldn't notice her doing it.

Rose saw him the way Carol was looking at him right now. From a distance.

But still. That Rose had _done_ it—sketched him over and over and over again—it made Carol think she cared considerably more about Merle than she ever consciously understood.

And outside the car, Merle was screwing on the gas cap. Carol sighed.

She was pretty sure he was going to kill her.

Maybe not even because he _wanted_ to. Maybe because he'd let this go so far already, and couldn't think of anything else to do.

Carol looked around the front cab. He kept it a lot cleaner than he kept his aunt's house. Really, it was meticulously clean. That seemed like him, to her. He'd look after his car. Daryl once told her how much Merle loved mechanical things. Carol suspected they made sense to him in a way people often didn't.

So she was surprised to see that he was driving an automatic transmission—he was really more the type to drive standard. But then it'd be pretty much impossible to work a stick shift one-handed. He had to make accommodations.

Thinking about the car made her realize something. She'd barely met Merle—had never spoken to him before. But she _knew_ him—knew his family. And thanks to the journals, she knew just about everything that happened to him for the first ten years of his life.

She could take that up against him. Rattle him. See what happened.

It might just get him to shoot her then and there. But even so, it'd be worth it. If he was going to kill her, she could at least do something to fight back.

He got back into the car. Started up the engine, and she took her chance.

"Did you kill Scout?"

He looked at her.

"What was that?"

"Scout. You can't have forgotten about Scout."

His face was blank.

"The _dog._ Golden retriever, I think?"

She paused. When he didn't say anything, she pushed forward.

"Did you _kill_ him? When you were a kid."

She could see the thought process going on behind his eyes. It was completely transparent. First, he thought of Daryl—what he might have told her. Then it occurred to him that Daryl didn't _remember_ Scout—he was too young. He _couldn't_ have told her about this.

He stared at her. Hadn't taken the car out of park. They were just sitting there with the engine running.

"Wait," he said, "How do you _know_—"

She cut him off. Stared at him steadily.

"Your mother told me."

* * *

Daryl moved through the willow garden. There were two walkers lying dead on the ground. They'd grabbed at Carol—and someone saved her, just in time.

And he reached the foot of his mother's grave, and stopped. There were three sets of tracks—all confused and tangled together. He couldn't make much of it out.

All he could see was that three people had been here. One came from the cemetery. That was Carol. Two came from the woods.

Daryl turned back to his mother's grave. Looked it over. Carol—she'd been picked up and dragged. Over to the side of one of the willow trees. She'd been dropped there. No walker would do that.

So really, it had to be Merle.

And he thought of what Carl said—about Merle setting the herds on them. And he finally, finally admitted it was true.

And Daryl could see it all unfolding as if he'd been there.

Merle found Carol. Shot those walkers so he could attack her himself. Rick must have come along later—the third set of footprints had to be his. He found Carol there, in the grass. And Carol was out cold. Or dead.

She was perfect bait. Drew Rick right on in—he wouldn't have had any idea there was anyone else around. Merle hid in the shelter of the foggy trees—then he must have knocked Rick unconscious with the butt of his handgun.

And he'd taken them off somewhere with him. It had to have been a difficult fucking task—out in the woods with only one good arm. But he did it—first Carol, then Rick. And Daryl could see the path he'd made.

Yes. He took them.

Where, Daryl didn't know.

* * *

Carol sensed her advantage.

Merle looked away—pulled the car out onto the roads. So she kept pressing

"But this is about _Scout_," she said, "We're not really talking about your mother. We're talking about the dog."

"She thought you killed him, you know. She found him beaten to death with some rocks. Off in the hollow behind the house."

"And it haunted her—what happened. She had nightmares about that dog."

"But if you ask me, I'd say those nightmares were really about you."

He shook his head. His lip twitched. She thought he'd started driving a bit too fast.

"Stop it," he said.

She didn't.

"She worried about you, you know. She didn't always _realize_ it, I think, but she thought about you all the time—"

"_Stop it."_

"—And there was so much to worry _about_. When she found you crying in the grass that day—"

He braked hard, then, and the force threw Carol forward—against the dash. The car swerved hard to the left and the wheels screeched against the pavement.

She was crumpled over on the dashboard. Felt a bruise blooming on her forehead. And for a brief moment, she thought she heard a muffled noise coming from the trunk.

She shook it off.

Carol pushed herself upright to look at Merle.

He leaned in. Raised his fist to strike. She didn't flinch.

He stopped, at that—pulled the blow at the last moment. He was looking at her with a sort of shocked horror.

Carol filled that silence. Watched him, calmly.

"So _did_ you kill the dog? There's no reason not to tell me. "

He grabbed her then. She felt his fingers digging into her arm. He tugged her forward, and she struggled against his grip. But she couldn't fight him—not like this.

He dragged her right up to his face.

"Oh, honey."

His voice was a low growl. His eyes were hard. Murderous.

"You ain't never gonna know."

* * *

A half hour later, Merle was alone in his car, parked in front of his Aunt Sarah's house.

Carol was gone, now. He was by himself again.

He'd knocked her unconscious with one blow. Slammed her head right against the steering wheel. It was easy. That kind of thing always seemed to be easy for Merle.

And he'd come here—to Aunt Sarah's—with a shadow of a plan rising up in his mind. It all came together without a hitch.

He folded his arms on the steering wheel. Lowered his head. Remembered.

The grass. The tall grass.

Sometimes he felt like he was still there, sobbing. Lying crumpled in the dirt.

Sometimes it was like he'd never left.

No one—_no one_ was supposed to know about that. Even Daryl didn't know. That _she_ did seemed like some kind of horrifying blurring of the lines—the lines between what he showed the world and what he contained within himself. It seemed like she'd been able to read his _thoughts_.

That woman. She'd seen him. She _knew_.

After what that woman said, Merle lost whatever control he had left. It was all a white blur.

So he'd left her crumpled over in the car, and pulled his .38. Made sure he had a full clip, and went straight to his aunt's house.

And he'd shot them. All of them. Timmy and his girlfriend Anna. Then the rest of the girls who were staying with them. They hadn't expected it. Didn't have time to react. And before he knew it, all the bodies were sprawled over each other in a pile on that living room floor. He'd made sure to aim for the chest each time—not the head.

Merle sat there in his car, and remembered all of it. It seemed far away—like it happened to someone else.

Timmy—he'd been groaning from where he lay on those floorboards. Took a good long time with the business of bleeding to death. Looked up when Merle leaned over him. His eyes seemed dull and empty.

That Timmy had always been a weird kid. He liked collecting things. Bottle caps and rubber bands and the fortunes from the cookies at the fucking Chinese takeout.

And he collected _keys_. Kept them all on a ring on his belt—every damn key he ever owned. Housekeys, car keys. Smaller ones for bike locks and footlockers. And the keys to his handcuffs. Timmy was a weird kid, and he had some interesting kinks. Was more willing than most to make them public knowledge. So he carried those around with him, too.

And Merle had looked down at Timmy, bleeding on the floor. He'd shot him in the gut. It'd take a good while to die from something like that.

But Merle wasn't thinking about Timmy, really. He was focused on other things. Mostly on that woman.

Carol fucking Peletier.

That _woman_. He didn't want to shoot _her_. Shooting her would be too damned easy. This whole thing wasn't just about Daryl anymore. It wasn't about Rick, either—even though Merle was able to get him in that willow grove, too—and locked him up in the car's trunk, after.

It wasn't just about Rick _or_ Daryl, now. It was about _her_, too. And it wasn't so much about _killing_ her—really, for Merle, it was about making her suffer.

That woman. That _woman_. The way she _looked_ at him.

She was fucking terrifying.

* * *

For a second time that day, Carol woke in complete darkness. Her eyes adjusted slowly, and she realized she was in some kind of basement.

It was completely empty—no storage boxes. Nothing. Just concrete and old plumbing on the walls. A few cobwebs at the ceiling.

Carol realized she was leaning against some of the pipes on the wall. They were cold against her skin. And she could see the back of a stairwell from the corner of her eye, and a door straight ahead. That probably led to a cold cellar of some kind. People kept preserves and things in places like that.

She tried to move. Felt something digging into her right wrist. And she realized she was chained there—handcuffed by the hand to one of the larger pipes on the wall.

She heard a sound beside her. Turned, and waited for her vision to stabilize. It was Rick, waking up. And she saw the other side of those handcuffs, attached to his wrist.

"You weren't in the car."

"No," he said, rubbing his temples with his free hand, "I got to enjoy that ride from the trunk."

She saw duct tape scattered around—sawed off with a knife, from the look of it. Merle had bound him that way. Didn't think there was any point in doing that with Carol.

But Rick—Rick was another story.

"I went after you," Rick said, "Saw you sprawled out on the grass, and he must have hidden himself. Waited for me to get close. And I thought you'd fainted or—or—"

"—Or that I'd been killed."

Rick nodded. And Carol knew it was just like him—the moment he saw her in trouble, he'd been bound to come running.

"I didn't realize anyone was _out_ there—anyone alive. Didn't even _think_ of it."

He shook his head.

"Stupid."

* * *

Daryl followed Merle's trail to the street, where it cut off.

He wasn't sure where to go. Merle couldn't have taken them to their aunt's house—there were too many people there. Surely _some_ of them would have a fucking problem with this.

So he wandered the main streets, hoping to catch a sight of Merle's headlights. He had to have a car—couldn't possibly move them on foot. Daryl tried to find the crests in the hills, so he could scan for any sign of movement in the distance.

But he knew it was hopeless. He'd never find them—not this way.

They were gone. Carol was gone, and he'd never, ever know what it'd been like for her in the end.

* * *

Merle started driving around at random. Around the familiar streets where he grew up.

He wanted to see Daryl. Felt like going to him was the only thing left he could do. They had things to work over, Merle and his brother.

And the way Daryl seemed to be about that woman—he _had_ to have gone out looking for her.

_Assuming he survived the walkers you set on him and his buddies earlier._

Merle shook the thought away. No. He _had_ to be ok. Daryl wasn't the type who got killed by things.

And there. Like magic. There he was. Up on the top of a hill, standing in the middle of the asphalt. Silhouetted against the late afternoon light. The shape of his shoulders—the outline of that crossbow of his.

Even at this distance, Merle would know him anywhere.

Merle felt like he'd conjured Daryl out of his mind. Started to think he might be some kind of hallucination.

He turned the wheel towards his brother. Headed for him. And soon Merle saw Daryl had stepped directly into the path of his car. Was staring him down. He had that .44 raised.

Daryl was aiming right for him—his eyes hard and cold in glare of the headlights.

So Merle slammed a foot down on the gas. Gunned it.

A shot rang out and Merle's car listed to one side. Daryl hit one of the tires. Was at close enough range, by then, that the thing really shredded.

And Merle was trying to steer one-handed. Was going too fast—slammed down on the brake, and lost control.

The car spun out, then—right into Daryl.

* * *

Daryl didn't feel the impact immediately.

The side fender rammed into him, and the crossbow flew from his shoulder. He rolled over the hood and landed on the pavement.

The car was out of control. Spun to the side. He could hear the wheels shrieking on the pavement.

Then silence.

Daryl turned, wincing against the sharp pain coursing through his body. And he saw his crossbow, caught under one of the tires—its frame collapsed—crushed. The arrows splintered.

Merle stepped out. Left the car door hanging open. Daryl could hear the car chiming a warning that the keys were in the ignition.

Merle leaned over him. Daryl felt a hand on his shoulder. He was checking him out. His injuries.

Daryl saw Merle had his .44 in hand. Must have found it on the pavement.

And Merle took his hunting knife from its sheath, then, too. Threw both of them into the blackness of the nighttime woods—out in the thick brush where Daryl would never be able to find them. Left him lying unarmed and dazed on the pavement.

Daryl looked up into his brother's face. Started to regain his breath. Tried to speak.

"Been looking for you, bro."

"Same here," Merle said, before kicking Daryl hard in the ribs.

* * *

"Ok," Rick said.

"On three."

He counted, and they tugged against the pipe, together.

Nothing.

"Again."

Nothing.

They kept at it. Soon, Carol's wrist was bleeding. They stopped a moment—catching their breath. She was starting to feel defeated.

And then there was a noise.

It came from behind the door—the only door. The door to the cold cellar. A sound of movement. Then something banging at the wood. Something that heard them.

A moment later, the sound grew louder.

Walkers. In the cold cellar. Carol didn't realize it, but they were Merle's friends, slowly rising up from the dead.

Rick stared at the door. Whispered.

"Oh _Christ."_

* * *

Daryl was sprawled on the pavement, dazed with the pain. Some of the skin was scraped off the side of his arm. There was blood running over his face. He could feel it. Smell it. Taste it in his mouth.

As he tried to shift in place, strange, creaking pains started shooting through his body. It was hard to think.

Merle stood above him.

"You blew out my tire, man."

Daryl tried to push up on the pavement. But his right arm gave out under his own weight. He winced—grunted against the pain as it shot through to his shoulder.

That shoulder was dislocated, at least. And he felt other pains on his right side. Cracked ribs. Some sort of strain in his right ankle.

"What you doin', Merle?"

As he spoke, he felt the blood overflowing in his mouth. He spat some of it out onto the pavement.

Then he looked up to his brother, again.

"You even _know_ what you're doin'?"

Merle started talking. Pacing around while he did it. Circling Daryl. He started on a little speech—ranted away as if by rote. As if he'd been repeating the whole thing in his head over and over until he'd pretty much memorized it, word for word.

"_This_, brother—it ain't supposed to _be_ like this."

"This is just so fucking _unfair_. Don't you _see_ it?"

"_Everythin'_ I done for you and you go to _them?"_

"I damn well brought you _up_. You think you woulda made it through if you'd been _alone_ with our daddy?"

"Think you'd even be _alive_ right now without me?"

"Daryl—I tried so damn _hard_."

He sank down on the pavement, then. Spoke more quietly. Sounded sad. Defeated.

"I done everything for you I damn well _could_, baby brother."

"Maybe," Daryl said, "Maybe you did."

Daryl pushed himself up with his left hand. Leaned on it, and stared hard at his brother's face.

"But it ain't a fucking _shadow_ of everythin' you took."

Daryl had him by the collar, then. He winced with the pain as he pushed in—shook his brother. And he screamed in his face.

"You've always need _everythin'!_ _You always take everythin'! _What would be _enough_ for you?"

"And you never give _nothin'_ _back_. You just bleed me and bleed me and you'll just keep on doing it until I'm a goddamned fucking _husk_."

Daryl lost his balance, and fell onto the pavement. Pulled Merle down with him.

Merle—it was like he was frozen. Just let him do it.

"And then, after that, when you had it all, you'd only want more…"

"You're like the walkers. You're hungry—_ravenous."_

Daryl felt the blood running down his face. Breathed hard. Glared at his brother. Shook him by the shoulder.

"And _why?_ For _what?"_

"What is it you think?"

"You think I don't love you?"

"Why you think I _stayed?_ Why you think I put up with all your _shit?_ For _years_."

"Why'd I dry you out all them times and sit through your fucking tantrums and let you give me all these here _scars?"_

"Why you think I nursed your wounds every time you got beat down in some _bar?_ Why you think I talked down _cops_ for you and stood by you in all them fucking _courtrooms_ and went to you when you were in that goddamn _prison?"_

Daryl was shouting so loudly the bloody spit flew from him. Splattered Merle's face. He felt his throat closing up—and he wasn't sure if he was going to fucking kill Merle, or if he was going to start to cry.

"Why you think I stayed at fucking _home _all those years? Cause I was _afraid_ of you, or for the fucking _ambiance?"_

"I gave it all up—didn't do _nothin'_ with my goddamn _life_ so I'd be there for you."

"Just sat there in that godforsaken house like some kinda mossy fucking stone."

Finally, Daryl let Merle go. Just stared into his face.

"I felt like I was _dead_. Like we _all_ were. Like we were _all_ fucking buried there."

"That place is a fucking tomb."

"_You_ did that to me."

"Only thing that stopped it was the walkers. It woulda _never_ ended. Took the end of the fucking world to set me free."

"So before was one thing—but now it's different."

"I _matter_ now."

"I _got_ things now—things I never thought I…"

Daryl trailed off a moment. Looked down into the pavement. Got quieter.

"I got a fucking _life_ when you were gone—'cause I didn't have to give it all to _you_."

And he found himself falling silent, then. There was nothing more to say.

Merle stood. Looked one way, then another. Started to speak, and stopped again. Paced a little. Finally, he froze in place for a while. And the two of them listened to sound of the car chiming at them, and Daryl's ragged breath.

And then Merle stepped close. Kicked Daryl hard in the ribs, again. Winded him. Seemed to want him incapacitated before he did whatever he was about to do.

He went to the car. Took the keys, and that chiming sound went dead. He grabbed a shoulder bag from the back seat, then came back to Daryl's side.

"They're at Aunt Sarah's. Rick and that woman. In the basement."

"It ain't safe in there—so look out for yourself."

Leaned over. Dropped the car keys on the pavement. Right by the side of Daryl's head.

"Spare tire's in the trunk. You'll have to change it."

"And maybe you'll get to 'em in time. Maybe you won't."

And Merle laid his hand on Daryl's cheek, then. Lingered a long moment, there.

"Goodbye, little brother."

Then he walked away.

* * *

There was no point in trying to pull their way free. They were trapped. Carol looked all around. And she saw it. A keyring on the floor. By the stairwell. Just visible from the corner of her eye—completely out of reach. He'd done that on purpose—wanted her to see it. Thought it would make her suffer.

A fourth walker had joined the others behind that door. And then a fifth. Carol had no idea how many there were, all told. The wood was starting to crack and groan.

It was obvious to both of them, then, that they weren't going to be able to get away. It was just a matter of minutes, now.

They looked at each other, and Rick shook his head.

"Carol… about Sophia—I _tried_, Carol."

He sighed, hard.

"I tried. I _wanted_ to—I—"

He interrupted himself.

"If it could've been me and not her…"

And he looked at her again—open and honest in that way he had.

"I should have done more for her."

And she still couldn't let it go. Sophia running off like that, and never coming back. He'd had a chance, and he'd made the wrong choices. She didn't know _how_ to let something like that go.

"Yes," she said, "You should have."

Carol thought of Ed, then. And felt Rick's eyes on her.

"But really, Rick—all told… I should have done more for her, too."

A noise above. The basement door opening. Someone working their way down the stairs.

And a voice. Daryl's voice.

"_Carol?"_

* * *

Merle was walking along one of the country roads, looking up through the arching canopy of the tree branches and into the sky.

Night was setting in. And for Merle, it was pretty much all over.

The dense cloud-rack was finally thinning, overhead. There were little patches of stars up there. As he walked, sometimes he could see the moon.

And he counted constellations. Like he used to do with Daryl when they were kids. They'd both liked doing that.

He couldn't stop thinking about the past. He felt like he was moving backward—away and away into his memories of this town.

He walked along the foggy, country roads—familiar roads. The roads of his boyhood, where he'd ridden his twelve-speed as a kid—where he'd hitched rides as a teenager. Where he rode that gorgeous Triumph Bonneville when he was older, with some girl or other clinging to him from behind.

Merle walked along those same, old roads. And the fog enveloped him, and he was gone.

* * *

Daryl leaned hard on the railing and worked his way into the basement—angry he couldn't move faster. He was limping hard, and his right arm was useless.

Immediately, he heard the dead snarling from behind the cold cellar door.

He remembered that cellar. Aunt Sarah kept preserves in there. And in the summers, when it was really hot, he'd hide down there—in the cool darkness, reading with a flashlight.

And he sensed a movement in the shadows, on the other side of the room.

Carol. Carol was there.

"Daryl?"

The sound of her voice wrenched at his heart.

He reached the foot of the stairs. Saw the keyring. Leaned down to pick it up. That was Timmy's. He'd know it anywhere.

"_God_, Daryl, what _happened_ to you?"

And he saw Carol more clearly then—chained up with Rick at her side. He rushed to them. Crouched at their side. Sifted the ring for the small keys—ones that might open those handcuffs.

"No, Daryl," Rick said, looking to the cold cellar door. Daryl turned with him. And in that moment, one of the wood panels burst, and blood-stained hands started straining through.

If he was armed, he'd be able to take them—kill the things behind that door. But Daryl was badly injured, and he had nothing.

The sound of the splintering wood and groans filled the air. They were deafening.

"Daryl, stop—it's too late… you'll never find the right key. You've got to get _out_ of here."

Carol joined in with Rick.

"Daryl, _go_."

Daryl tried a key. And another. Ignored them.

At his back, one of the bodies was hanging halfway through the shattered door. It strained for them in the shadows.

He shook his head. Kept moving through the ring.

"I won't _leave_ you."

"Daryl, no—_please_—_go."_

Her voice was tinged with tears.

"Get _out of here."_

A sound behind him. A body, falling. One of them was free, and on the basement floor.

He turned a key in the lock, and the cuffs went loose. Fell to the floor.

Daryl spun around just in time to see the door collapse completely. The dead started spilling out right for them.

* * *

Carol didn't have time to fully stand up before the press hit her.

It was a blur. Rick fell into the shadows somewhere, and she didn't know what happened to him. She and Daryl collapsed under a press of dead—the things were falling all over each other, trying to reach them.

And then there was a tangled mess of limbs all over her. The smell of the dead. Their skin was cold where it pressed against her body. She grappled with them—tried to push them away from her. Struggled to escape.

She could feel the warmth of Daryl's shoulder at her side. Her right arm was pinned under his back. She couldn't get it loose. Her left arm was free. Sprawled out on the concrete.

There was one right on top of her. The man—Timmy. She got a knee under his chest—held him at a distance. She couldn't see the other two very well. One of them was draped over Daryl. There may have been another tangled above them over that.

Everything was limbs and flesh and snarling, black teeth.

She shifted as best she could. Strained to look to Daryl. He was trying hard to draw them away from her—was trying to get enough purchase to push them off.

And she saw it. One of the women—from above. She was small, and she was wriggling her way between the others. She was headed straight for Daryl's side. She'd sink in in seconds. Her teeth were snapping just a few inches above his torso, and he couldn't _see_ her.

Carol went cold.

He was about to get bit, and it was going to happen right in front of her.

Everything slowed down for her, then.

She moved her free arm. Her left arm. Twisted in place, and elbowed the one on top of her square in the jaw. It jerked backwards, but she still couldn't get up. She was pinned. Couldn't _do_ anything.

_No._

She wouldn't accept that. She was fucking _done_ with not doing anything.

So instead of trying to push her way _out_, she slipped _under_. Moved in _closer _to the dead thing. And then she was right under its mouth—a hair's breadth out of reach. She had her knee in its throat, then, and it didn't understand how to free itself to move in.

Carol pushed against Daryl's side. Rolled and twisted until she got her left arm across his chest.

Carol blocked the bite. Used her own arm. Pushed it right into the walker's teeth.

She was just in time.

The blood started running, and the others sensed it. Moved in on that arm, and clamped down.

One of them tore right into her bicep. Sank in hard, and ripped a whole chunk of the flesh away.


	18. And Into the Black

_Onwards, my friends, and towards the end. This is the ante-penultimate chapter (and don't you just love a chance to use the word "ante-penultimate" in a sentence?). There's some violence and a little bit of gore, here, so be warned, and there are some not-very-graphic references to sex. I feel like the last quarter of this story warrants its own giant disclaimer, really._

_So I contacted support about my section breaks issue, and they ever so helpfully never responded and didn't do a thing to resolve the issue. So I am on my own, and at a loss. Some section breaks, for no reason that's apparent to me, manifest as larger spaces between lines. I'm going to assume they will continue to do so in this chapter. I'm really very sorry about this._

_Thanks for sticking it out with me. Not too much further to travel, now._

* * *

_And Into the Black:_

"Hey, Mom!"

Carol was carrying a stack of folded towels to the linen closet when Sophia's voice echoed down the hall—floating out from her open bedroom door. She'd just taken those towels from the line, and they smelled wonderful.

"Mom, come look!"

She put the towels down on one of the shelves, and went to Sophia.

It was Sophia's twelfth birthday, and it was perfect. One of those late autumn days that's too clear and fresh and lovely to be real. Sophia had her windows open, and the light breeze spilled through her curtains—sent the sheer voile billowing. It made the room smell fresh, and clean—like the laundry from the line.

Sophia was kneeling on a chair, in front of one of those windows, and the curtains were flowing all around her.

And Carol just stood in her bedroom door, confused. Didn't understand what on earth Sophia was doing.

"Mom—come here and _look_ at her."

It was a spider—a small one. Shiny black, like lacquer. She was weaving a web in the shelter between the window panes.

Sophia had always liked things like that—butterflies and moths and bugs and bats. Sometimes she'd spend hours digging around in her mother's garden, looking for grubs.

Carol looked at the spider, with all its legs working away, and suppressed an urge to cringe. She'd never shared that affinity for crawling things.

But she smiled at Sophia.

"She's beautiful," Carol said.

The soft wind was on Sophia's face—it moved on the strands of blonde hair caught on her cheek. And she got quiet, a moment. Thoughtful. Seemed worried about something.

Then she said it.

"But it's almost winter, Mom. It'll get cold, soon. What's she gonna do?"

Carol wasn't sure what to say.

That question was really about death. Sophia was old enough that she understood things died, of course—but the question of _why_… that was bound to come up in this discussion. Carol could feel it. And it wasn't a conversation Carol wanted to have—not on Sophia's birthday. Not when she still seemed so young. There'd be so many other times when they could talk about it.

But Carol had long since learned that you didn't get to choose when kids were ready for things. You had to answer the questions they asked, and you had to be honest—or the answers would stand between you and them. Children knew if you were holding out on them. And as much as she could, Carol wanted to be someone Sophia could trust.

She touched her daughter's hair.

"Well… she'll live her life, and have her babies, and then it'll be over."

"Why? Can't we do anything?"

"No, honey. That's nature—there's no point in fighting it."

Sophia looked down. Up above, the little black spider worked on her web—worked those silk threads into patterns in the sunlight.

"It doesn't seem long enough…"

Carol didn't answer right away.

Sophia was twelve years old, now. She could hardly believe it'd _been_ so long—that Sophia had grown so much. And Carol tried to imagine what she'd look like at thirteen, then—and fourteen. How she'd look as a young woman. And she wondered if she'd still love butterflies and moths and bats and bugs when she was older.

And Carol felt that familiar, aching pull towards her daughter—one that hadn't changed since the day Sophia was born. And so she kissed her. Pushed back her hair.

"It's as long as it's meant to be," Carol said, at last. And for a moment, the curtain flowed over them, and the world was shrouded in glowing white.

"Nothing lasts forever."

* * *

Carol didn't feel it right away. She could see the things biting at her arm, but it was all so far away. It wasn't real.

And it seemed like a long time went by—she was pinned in the dark, looking down at the walkers as they tore at the skin. Her entire body was still. She felt very calm.

A sound echoed in the air—strange against the bare concrete. A raw, agonized howl. It was Daryl—Daryl, shouting incoherently into the dark.

He must have seen what happened.

One of the dead pulled away from her, then—the one right on top of her. The man—the thing that used to be Timmy. It was working on the piece it tore out from her bicep—was chewing at it with its teeth.

She looked at it. At the dead thing with her flesh in its mouth and her blood on its face. And suddenly—it vanished. The walker's whole body went sprawling out into the darkness.

Rick. He was standing over her. Hit the thing with a piece of that cold cellar door. Sent it flying. And then she heard him attacking it. Heard the sound of that board coming down on it again and again.

The two other walkers let go of her arm, then—turned towards that sound. And Carol had her chance.

She pushed at them. Found her leverage. Dug in with her foot and shoved forward. The pain in her arm came in earnest then. A bolt of pure, white agony that blocked out every other thought.

And so she didn't really question anything she did, then. Just screamed at the walkers—fought them to free herself with complete and total abandon.

And finally, she was up. She seized the one in front of her—one of the women.

Carol forced it to the ground. Pinned it with her legs, and beat its brains out against the concrete.

* * *

Daryl acted on instinct—could barely remember what happened in that basement later.

One of the walkers on Carol went flying. Rick. He'd managed to get to them—had fought off however many were after him, at least for the moment.

And that gave Carol a chance to push herself upright. And she grabbed at one of the walkers. Did something—he wasn't sure what. She screamed while she did it.

And then she was at his side again. Grabbed one of the ones pinning him. Pulled it away. And he was able to kick the other in the face. And then he was upright in an instant—ignored the pain from his screaming bones, and he soon he was beating at it with his boots.

And then it was over. All told, it took less than a minute.

A strange silence filled the darkness in that basement. And he looked around. Six walkers, sprawled out on the floor—killed. That's all it had been. Just six. Moments earlier, it felt like hundreds.

Rick was standing at the far wall. He was looking over Daryl's shoulder. Staring with a sort of blank shock at something at his back. Daryl turned.

It was Carol. Carol with two dead walkers at her feet. She'd beaten them to death.

For a moment, Daryl was frozen in place by the sight of her, and forgot everything else.

She stood in the moonlight, filtering dimly through the narrow, basement windows at her back. It caught in her hair. Surrounded her in a pale, silver glow. Her eyes were fierce. She was breathing hard. Covered in blood.

It ran down her arm, along her fingers, and onto the floor.

* * *

Carol stood over the walkers she killed. She could see Rick and Daryl's faces in the darkness—half covered in shadow.

It still didn't seem real.

"Carol."

Daryl closed the distance. Pulled her down onto the concrete. And he grabbed at the side of her face then, hard and rough and clumsy. His voice was trembling as he repeated her name.

"_Carol."_

He let go, and she heard something. He was unbuckling his belt. And he wrapped it around her mangled arm—close to the joint. Pulled it down tight.

She looked at her arm for the first time, then. It was torn to shreds. A mess of ragged, dripping wounds, welling over with blood. In one place, she could see bone.

That wrenched at her stomach, and she turned away.

And Daryl was still adjusting that belt—fitting it tightly to cut off the circulation and keep her from bleeding to death.

But that was pointless.

"No," she said, breathing hard from the pain stabbing through her body. It was a strain to speak.

"Leave it."

He looked at her a moment, then secured the buckle. She could feel it digging hard into her skin.

Then he kept on working at her wounds. Took off his jacket. Ripped at his shirt to get something to bind the exposed tissue.

"Daryl—stop."

She put her good hand out.

"_Stop."_

"_No."_

"Daryl—don't, it's not—"

He shouted. Punched the wall at her side. The sound of his voice echoed on the concrete. And he kept working on her, completely heedless of what she was saying.

And she knew what it was going to mean for her—what was going to happen. They all saw what it was like for Jim when he was bit. It would be easier to bleed out now than to face what would come later.

But she knew Daryl couldn't understand that. He didn't know how to give up.

Daryl was hovering over her. Breathing hard. His face—his tortured face. It nearly broke her heart to look at him.

So Carol let him treat her. She'd accept what came later, if it made it easier for him. She felt so sorry for him, then, that it seemed like the only thing she could do.

Already his tourniquet had staunched the blood flow. The pain started to dull as her arm went numb.

She sensed a movement—saw Rick crouched there at her side. His eyes were full of tears.

And Daryl moved to pick her up, then. Even as badly injured as he was, he wanted to carry her. She wasn't sure if he'd actually be able to manage it.

And she could still _walk_. She'd accepted she was going to die—but she could still do that. Wanted to. Wanted to keep on doing things as long as she possibly could. And she felt some of that same _fight_ rising up in her—the same feeling that made her grab those walkers and kill them with her own hands.

For a moment, that heartfelt pity she'd had for him went completely forgotten.

So Carol shoved him away with her good arm. Hard. Glared at him.

"_I can do it."_

* * *

Minutes later, Daryl sat at Carol's side as Rick drove along the country roads.

She wouldn't let him carry her, but she let him sit with her in the back of the car—Merle's car. They were headed to the painted lady—hoping the others managed to clear it out while they were gone. It was all they could think to do.

Carol spent most of the ride staring out the window. Watching the darkness move over the farm fields. Looking up at the cloud cover—at the moon filtering through it in a blurry haze. And Daryl spent it staring at her—felt like he couldn't stop. He watched her—the side of her face, pressed there against the glass.

Finally, she turned to him. She left a little bloodstain on the window.

"How's your shoulder?" she asked.

He ignored that. Looked her over. She was very pale. He found himself moving in, then, to feel her forehead. Check her temperature. See if she was running hot.

And she let him do it—for a moment, he wasn't sure if she would.

There was nothing. No fever yet.

She looked to him. Smiled. It twisted at him and he wanted to punch the car door. But he didn't. Didn't want to upset her.

So far, she was unnervingly calm. Completely unafraid.

But Daryl—he was terrified.

And he tried to hold it in, but couldn't contain all of it, now that they were face to face. He let out one agonized word.

"_Why?"_

She looked at him blankly—as if she didn't understand what he meant.

"I needed to protect you."

And she touched him, then, with her good arm. Brushed a strand of hair from his face.

"It's you and me, remember?"

* * *

Rick pulled up to the painted lady. They paused outside the gate. It was closed, again, and there were lights flickering in the windows.

And so they knew then that there were people inside the house. That they'd managed to take the herd.

Even so, Rick moved forward first. They were all unarmed, but he was the only one of the three of them who came out of it uninjured.

From the backseat, Carol could see the yard was piled high with bodies. And when she opened the car door and the dome light went on, she saw the seat was stained with her blood. It was all over her clothes, and skin.

She stood, and felt dizzy. Swayed on her feet, and Daryl was there. Took her good arm. And they leaned on each other—limped forward, together, towards the house.

The beam of a flashlight pierced the dark—stabbed at Carol's eyes.

A voice.

"Who's there?"

Maggie. Maggie with a rifle pointed at them. Glenn was right behind her. They'd been lying low on the porch, watching the three of them approach.

"Rick? Is that you?"

She lowered the weapon, rushed down the porch stairs.

"Oh thank _God."_

Rick met her, and Carol listened to them talk as she and Daryl made their way across the yard.

"Is everyone safe?"

"_God_ Rick, we—"

"Is everyone _safe?"_

"Yes—yes. Everyone here made it. We're ok. We—uh—we don't know where Carol and Daryl are, though. They're not here."

"But Rick—Rick you gotta come inside _right now_. Lori's having the baby and—"

And she interrupted herself.

"Wait—Rick, what's wrong?"

He didn't answer her.

"What's _wrong?"_

And her eyes met Carol's as she reached the edge of the porch. Maggie's hand drifted to her mouth.

"Oh God…"

She started to cry then, and Glenn came up behind her. Put an arm around her and pulled her close.

* * *

Carol settled down on a bench in the entryway. Leaned her head against the wallpaper. Left a bloodstain there.

The house was chaos. There was broken furniture scattered everywhere. Shards of glass and shell casings on the floor. They'd dragged most of the walkers' bodies out into the yard, but there was black blood smeared on the walls—handprints. Splattered brain and tissue—bits of bone.

And one of those carved sculptures at the stairwell—one of the women on the newel posts. Her face had been shot clear away. It was blank and empty. That vacant, faceless head looked strange to Carol, in the dark. Unsettling.

They called Hershel out of Lori's room to look Carol over. And he came into the front of the house, wiping his hands with a towel.

"This had better be imp—"

He cut himself off—immediately honed in on Carol's left arm.

"Are you _bit?"_

Carol nodded. Looked down at her feet. Saw the splintered remains of that newel post carving, scattered around on the floorboards. And no one said anything. Really, it didn't seem like there was much to be said.

Rick broke the silence.

"Lori—how's Lori?"

"Lori's just fine. You can go to her, Rick."

Hershel looked over Rick's shoulder, then. Caught Carol's eye.

"In fact, I'll need you to."

And he pressed on.

"In your training, I imagine you were at least _taught_ the basics of delivering a baby?"

"Uhm, yes—yes. But the only time we had to, it was Shane who…"

He trailed off. Looked down.

"It was Shane…"

And Hershel laid a hand on his arm.

"Go. Wash yourself off as thoroughly as you can. Beth is with her, now—call for me if anything changes."

An instant later, Rick was gone. Hershel knelt at Carol's side. Looked at the arm.

"You'd be dead by now if you hadn't tied off the wound."

"When this happened to Shawn, it took days for the infection to take its course. Flulike symptoms, fever, and then a coma. I sedated him through much of the worst of it."

"When… when he bit Annette, we did much the same."

He shook his head.

"It's all I am able to offer."

Hershel stood. Looked down at her steadily. Square in the eye.

"I am so very sorry."

Daryl pulled him around by the shoulder. Got in close.

"_Fix this."_

"Daryl… it's beyond my skill."

It was clear to Carol that Daryl's bluster didn't faze Hershel one bit.

Daryl let him go. Started pacing—limping as he did it. Carol could hear the debris on the floor break and scatter under his boots.

"Then cut it off."

He turned to them. Stabbed the air—pointing to the tourniquet.

"Cut her arm off—I got that thing on her about a minute after she got bit. There's a chance."

"The trauma involved—it may well add to her suffering needlessly."

"_Do it."_

Carol tugged at Hershel's arm.

"You should be talking to me."

He looked down at her. She could tell he saw the sense in what Daryl was saying. But he had no enthusiasm for the idea of sawing off her arm.

"Your arm is very badly damaged, Carol. Even if you _hadn't_ been infected, I would need to amputate. But we don't know if it will—"

"If it'll work, yes, I know," she said. She was feeling impatient again. Feeling that fight rising up in her.

"_If_ I do this, it's going to be Civil War surgery. We don't have time to gather the supplies to do anything else. Do you understand?"

She looked at Daryl—over Hershel's shoulder. He was so desperate. He looked back at her with wet eyes.

So she nodded.

"Ok."

Hershel wasted no time.

He turned to Maggie. Gave her a list of equipment to find in the house, and she went running.

"T-Dog, heat some water. Glenn, clean the kitchen table. Use bleach. Then both of you wash up—under the fingernails, everything."

Glenn looked at him, spooked.

"Uhm, why—why do you need us to do that?"

"I'm going to need you to hold her down."

And he turned to Daryl, then.

"Daryl—go to Lori and Rick."

And Daryl burst forward.

"There ain't no fucking _way_ I'm gonna—"

Carol reached out for him. Caught his wrist, and drew him in with her good arm. Stood, and pulled him down to her—pressed his forehead against hers a moment. Let go.

And it silenced him. She knew it would.

"Go to Rick," she said. He made to interrupt her, and she placed her fingers to his lips.

"I'll do it, Daryl—but I don't want you to see it."

* * *

Daryl sat at Lori's bedside. She was drenched with sweat, and grabbing hard at his hand.

And Rick—Rick was calmly helping her along. He had this amazing ability to do that—to stay calm when he really needed to. And he and Lori—they seemed to understand each other on some level that left anyone else behind. A lot of the conversation in that room was silent—it went on in Rick and Lori's eyes.

And the screams were echoing back through the house—through hallways from the kitchen.

Carol.

They were doing it. It only lasted about fifteen minutes, but to Daryl, it seemed like it would never end.

Those sounds got worse the longer it lasted. Louder. They echoed off the floorboards. Off the shadowed walls, and the leaded glass panels on the French doors.

And then—finally—she went silent. The sound of those screams reverberated in the house, and then everything was quiet.

Daryl twitched. Made for the door. Lori grabbed his arm.

"Stay with us, Daryl."

And she tried to give him one of her tight-lipped smiles, then, but something gripped at her. A strong contraction. She cried out in pain.

As soon as she recovered, Lori looked up to him, again. Squeezed his hand, breathing hard.

"It's gonna be ok," she said.

* * *

Hours later, Daryl stood by himself in Carol's empty bedroom.

Everything was silent.

The thing was done. While they worked on her, Carol had fainted outright. And now she was resting downstairs, on a pull-out bed in one of the back parlors, where Hershel and the others were seeing to her.

They'd finally let him see her when it was finished. She was out cold. Hershel set his shoulder while Daryl sat at her side. Worked the joint back in place, bound his arm, and dressed his wounds.

And Daryl lingered there with her, after that. He didn't really know what to do, so he just watched her sleep.

And her arm—her left arm. It was _gone_. And he couldn't stop _looking_ at it. Thinking about how it happened. Playing it over and over in his head.

Other people moved in and out, and he didn't pay any attention to them. No one said anything to him.

After a while, Hershel sent him away. Said he wanted Carol to be completely alone, so she could fully rest. Daryl thought that was bullshit. Strongly suspected that Hershel thought he was about to break down, and wanted him to do it somewhere else.

Daryl fought him, but Hershel was adamant about it. Didn't seem to care one bit what kind of words Daryl spat at him.

It was all Daryl could do to hold back from punching the old man in the face.

But he'd gone upstairs. Went straight to her room, and sat down on her bed. Touched her rumpled bedsheets—still unmade from the morning before. He thought of her in them. Lying there beside him—her soft breath flowing over his shoulder while she slept. Her gentle hand, resting there on his chest. Her lovely, tapered fingers.

Just a few days before, on a rainy afternoon, he'd gone upstairs to get some tools from one of his gun bags. Heard Carol in her bedroom, and went to see what she was doing.

She'd been mending a sweater by the soft light of the rain-drenched window. And the moment she saw him, she put her work down. Pulled him in from the hall, closed the door, and reached for his face.

And then they were kissing each other with the desperate intensity that comes with new love. Before he knew it, they were pawing at each other's clothes and had collapsed onto her bed.

She cried out for him—softly, against his ear. He'd wanted her to the point of agony, and it was almost too much to hear that—to know that she wanted him, too.

And she whispered his name when he took her. Her hands tightened on his back, and he was lost.

And afterwards, he collapsed onto her chest. Buried his face against her breasts. Breathed in the clean scent of her soft skin. He could feel her heartbeat.

And she laid a hand on his neck, then. Ran her fingers from the side of his ear to the tip of his shoulder, and back again. Held him there.

And that—that was really the best part.

They lay like that a long time, listening to the rain beating against the window panes. And then he raised his head. Leaned over her, and touched her face. Kissed her, and whispered those words to her—_their_ words—the ones she always brought up in his mind.

"_You and me…"_

Daryl said that to her—then and all the other times—because it was what _Merle_ had always said. And so it was the way he best understood love. Because despite everything that had ever gone wrong, the good things in his old life had all really come from his brother.

So when this new, mysterious, wonderful thing happened, it was the only way he could find to understand what it meant to him.

Merle was that important. His words were worked right into Daryl's skin—like those tattoos on his back. He was down deep in his bones and meat and marrow.

Merle and Carol. They were as much a part of him as light and shadow.

So he thought it was the right way to say it. That they were the right words.

You and me.

Carol. His mind was full of her. Her subtle beauty. Her quiet strength. Her overwhelming kindness.

He shook it away. It was another life. A dream.

Daryl sat there in the dark. In the silence. The room seemed cold.

He looked around. Saw her Bible on the nightstand. Flipped it open with his free hand. He didn't believe in anything remotely like all this stuff—had his own ideas about those big questions. Ideas that came from the forest, and the cycle of death and rebirth he saw there.

So really, all that church stuff had always seemed a little silly to Daryl. But even so, he wasn't the sort of person who felt any need to talk _Carol _out of believing it. And he'd rarely spent much time with anyone really religious, before—so in his mind, now, this sort of thing was _hers_. And that was why he was thumbing around in the book—through her notes.

It was like being close to her.

And immediately, his eye was drawn to a passage she'd underlined.

_Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends._

He closed the book, and buried his face in his hand.

* * *

Daryl drifted through the house like a ghost. The sun would start rising, soon.

No one had gone to bed.

He heard the cries of the new baby, echoing out from Lori's room. Heard Rick's voice. He hadn't left her side.

Beth and Carl were on the couch in the front parlor. Beth had her arms wrapped around him, and she was singing.

"_The prettiest girl that I ever did see lived down in the Georgia pines  
__And the only girl that I ever did love—I knew she'd never be mine…"_

Daryl slipped by the two of them, and Carl nodded to him, firmly. He just sat there, letting her hold him like that. He had a hand on her shoulder. Beth was trying to comfort him. He didn't seem to need it.

Daryl went out. Needed air. Stood in the yard, and looked up at the sky.

There were patches in the cloud-rack, now. Stars. He could see the constellations against the rich blue—the coming sunrise. Recognized them. They were like old friends.

It was Merle who taught him about the constellations. They'd liked to count them, together, when they were kids.

And he was standing out in the grass, and the light flowed over it. Over the bike. Still sitting there where he'd parked it after he and Carol found his mother's body.

The bike. Merle's Triumph Bonneville. It shone even in the faint light. Behind it, there were piles of bodies. The walkers. They were starting to smell, and the odor floated over to Daryl on the light breeze.

He went over to the bike—slow, and limping hard. And he opened the saddle bags, and he found it. The crowbar.

He felt the anger rising in him. The bike. Merle's bike. The walkers. Merle's fucking walkers. Merle had done that.

Merle had done everything.

And he struck out at the bike with the crowbar. Chipped the paint. And he did it again. Again. Again. Shouted at it—frustrated he couldn't hit it harder. He could only really use his left hand.

Finally, he loosed the kickstand and pushed the whole thing over on the ground. Dropped the crowbar beside it. Stared at it lying there.

All that rage, and he'd barely made a dent.

He sensed a movement. Realized there was someone standing beside him.

Rick.

His breath misted in the cold air. And he reached out, and took Daryl by the shoulder. Looked him in the eye, and said one word.

"Brother."

And Daryl felt it all welling up. The tears. He couldn't breathe. Before he knew it, he was sobbing.

Rick pulled him in. Held him. And they sank onto the ground, together. Daryl wept into Rick's neck. Felt Rick's arms around him, hard and firm.

And the cool breeze flowed over them, and the sun slowly came up.

* * *

"Mom, look!"

Carol heard Sophia's voice through the kitchen window. Looked up, and saw she was next door—in Mr. Morsbach's yard, again.

She rushed outside to collect her. That sweet, old man—he had a koi pond and a little rock garden. And Sophia always wanted to play there. Carol didn't like her going in his yard without permission.

When she reached Sophia's side, she saw there were two frogs in the koi pond, perched on a stone.

"They were there _all_ _winter_, Mom. Mr. Morsbach told me—they just sleep there in the mud and stuff. Then when it gets to be springtime, they wake up again."

"He said even in really cold places they can do that—he says the water freezes over and the frogs just freeze with it."

"He said it's like they're dead—but they're not. After everything, they turn out ok."

And someone was walking up to them, through the grass. Carol turned, and realized it was Ed. He was standing at the side of the house, watching them.

"Dad!"

Sophia ran over to him, pulled him over by the hand. She was always tugging him places—trying to show him things. Struggling so desperately to get his attention.

"Daddy—come _see_."

And he went with her. Came to look at the frogs. Stood next to Carol, silently.

That night, while Carol was washing up after dinner, she heard the first report on the radio. Mass rioting outside Boston. Something about a communicable disease. None of it made sense to her, at the time.

But just then, at the neighbor's koi pond, none of them knew what was coming. So the three of them stood there together, and watched the frogs jump and swim.

* * *

Carol heard a voice, piercing through the fog.

"Dad!"

Someone's hand on her forehead.

"Daddy..."

Carol's eyes fluttered open, and she saw blue eyes looking down at her. Blonde hair framing the pale face. So she smiled. Whispered up at that face.

"Hello, sweetheart."

And her vision started to clear. She saw Hershel and Beth leaning over her.

Beth. It was Beth.

And so she closed her eyes once more, and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Daryl sat on the grass with Rick at his side. He picked at the dried stalks, absently.

And Rick sighed hard, then. Told him what he must have come out here to say.

"Hershel says she's running a fever, now."

And Daryl went numb.

"Didn't work," he said, at last.

He looked down into the dirt. He had a piece of grass between his fingers, and he stared at it.

"She did it for me, you know. Didn't want to… I made her go through that."

"Well," Rick said, "Hershel says what—what he did to her was so traumatic it could cause it on its own. So we won't know for a good while what's going to happen."

Silence. It stretched on and on. The first birdsong floated over them, and the light swelled strange and blue at the horizon.

Daryl had been thinking, while he sat out there with Rick. Thinking a lot.

He looked over to Merle's bike, lying in the grass. And he said it.

"I gotta kill him."

A good many things passed across Rick's face, then. But he didn't say any of them. Just nodded, once, and asked a question.

"How are you going to know where to look for him?"

"Don't gotta look," Daryl said, pushing himself up from the ground.

"I know where he is."


	19. Merle

_Just one more to go, now, after this. I'm starting to get sad. I'll miss this story a lot—it's been a faithful friend for over three months, now. I suppose I will have a new season of Walking Dead to comfort me, though. And I can't bring myself to complain about that._

_Thank you for sticking with me. It's been a true pleasure. I'll wait to say my goodbyes until next time—because why focus on sad things until it's really time to let go? For now, enjoy._

* * *

_Merle:_

Daryl stood in front of his daddy's house for the last time.

He looked over the tired, old facade. That sight was so deeply ingrained within him that it haunted his sleep. He saw it in his dreams. Saw it, sometimes, when he closed his eyes—even for a moment.

When he dreamed of rooms, they were _these_ rooms. All stairwells were Daddy's stairwell.

Every house was daddy's house.

But Daryl wasn't dreaming now. He was right there in front of the real thing—standing there looking at it. The decaying, old cage that trapped him his whole life.

And Merle had to be inside. There was nowhere else he could go.

Daryl scanned the windows for any sign of movement, but there was nothing.

The dead-end road was silent. There was no wind. There weren't even birds. As if they knew why he'd come here, and had all flown away.

He hesitated. Found himself double-checking the works on T-Dog's Glock. When he was done, he checked them again.

Daryl had to borrow a weapon, since Merle had thrown his off into the woods after he hit him with that car.

When Daryl asked for a gun, T-Dog just gave him a look, and handed his over without a word. T-Dog rarely said much of anything. It was one of the things Daryl liked about him. But even so, Daryl could see that T-Dog knew just what he had planned—the trepidation was plain on the man's face. But he handed the gun over just the same.

And Daryl felt T-Dog's eyes on him as he left the room—limping a little on his bad ankle. It was bad enough he had to lean on the door a second before moving on.

He heard a little sigh at his back. T-Dog. And so Daryl realized T-Dog thought they wouldn't be seeing each other again.

And now, he looked down at T-Dog's gun in his hand. Daryl worked the slide. Counted his ammo. Stood in the cool, still air.

But he couldn't wait forever. So Daryl stepped forward, and his light footfalls reverberated deafeningly in the morning quiet. He could hear every grain of sand grinding under his boots.

And he was on the porch. Checked it carefully. There was nothing there but the mangled body of a walker—still laying out where it fell when they fled the house last year.

That was the first walker Merle ever killed. It came at him when they ran for the bike, and he stabbed it through the eye without a moment's hesitation.

When they ran—when this place was surrounded by walkers, Daryl never would have thought he'd be back again. And he'd never have conceived he would do what he was preparing himself to do.

He breathed in, hard. There was no point in waiting.

So Daryl pushed the front door open, raised his borrowed weapon, and crept quietly inside.

* * *

Daryl was three years old. It was a sunny afternoon in early March, and he was looking through his books. Mama had been gone about two months, and Daryl had long since resigned himself to the situation.

It wasn't that hard to let go of her, really. As Merle would say all those years later, she'd barely been there to begin with. And because Daryl was three years old, he was most interested in what was in front of him in the moment. She was gone, and, as much as he could, he more or less forgot about her.

Still, there were some signs of her that hadn't been wiped away. Her rain boots stood by the back door. A grocery list still sat on one of the kitchen counters—written in her tight, cursive hand.

Her winter coat was still hanging in the closet, and there were a few strands of her hair on the bathroom tile.

And then there were the sheets on the laundry line. There had been a really nice, sunny day a little before Christmas, and Mama must have had it in her head that she'd put some laundry out to dry. But she'd been getting a little weird, by then, and forgot all about those sheets. Left them there. Or so Daryl always figured, when he tried to piece it all together, later.

And even after two months went by, those sheets were still there—matted and muddy from all the rain and wind and winter snow.

They were still hanging there that bright afternoon, while he flipped through his books. He was reading the descriptions under the pictures as best he could. Trying to work out the text with a quiet, focused determination.

Daryl loved those books. In later years, he wouldn't be able to remember where exactly they'd come from, or how they'd come to be his. But they'd been deeply important to him. They were about photography, and were full of nature. Deserts. Volcanos. Wild animals.

His favorite was all about the ocean.

And it was that favorite book that occupied him now. He sat on his bedroom floor, staring into the pages. Rock cliffs and sand beaches. Bright sun and blue, blue water stretching out and out and out—wide and deep and strange. Like nothing he'd ever seen.

And even at three years old, he wanted to go there. Wanted to see it. Wanted to escape his daddy's house. Wanted to climb into the pages and get away.

Daryl could only remember it vaguely, but he knew his mama tried to take those books away from him. He couldn't remember why—could only remember how upset he'd been with her for doing it. It was all foggy and indistinct in his mind. He knew she gathered them all up in a box and stuck them on the top of a shelf, out of his reach—and he'd cried. That was right before she vanished.

Daryl got Merle to pull that box down for him, after she was gone.

Merle did that for him. Really, he'd tried to do _everything_, at first. Before he seemed to get completely exhausted from it, and mostly gave up.

Merle tried to shovel out the house as best he could. No one had cleaned it in those two months since mama was gone. He threw out the gallon of spoiled milk that had gone solid on the kitchen counter. Tried his best to figure out how to do their laundry.

Merle even tied Daryl's shoes for him, throughout that first winter.

But sitting on the floor with those books that afternoon, all of that was in the background for Daryl. He just accepted it. It was the way things were, now.

And he must have sensed a movement outside. Because he remembered standing at his bedroom window, after that. Remembered pressing his face against the glass.

Merle.

Merle was in the backyard, standing in among those tangled, dirty bedsheets.

He was taking them down. Balling them up, and tossing them in a plastic garbage bag to throw away.

* * *

Daryl stood in the silence of the living room. He could smell the cold, morning air. It flowed in from the open, burned-out maw at the far wall.

It didn't take long for him to see that Merle wasn't anywhere in the living room, or the kitchen. So he drifted towards the back of the house. Towards their bedrooms.

He stood there, between those two rooms. Merle's was burned out—nothing but a charred void. Daryl's, however—that was intact, with the door closed.

That's where he was. In there. Behind that closed door.

The first time Daryl came back here—when he'd taken his mother's journals—he stood in his bedroom door, too rattled by his memories to go inside.

But this time, he was ready. Because Merle was in there, no question.

He went up to the door. Stood in front of it a moment. Closed his eyes. Breathed in and out. Clung to T-Dog's Glock and tried to steel himself for what was coming.

Then he kicked the door open, and stepped into the shadows.

* * *

Daryl was ten, and Merle was seventeen, and they were up in the tower at the very top of the painted lady.

After Daryl wriggled through the bathroom window and broke into the mansion, he and Merle spent hours exploring it. Room after room, swathed in cool shadows. They went through drawers and closets. Found all kinds of weird old books and other things. One of the best things they discovered was a cavalry saber in a cedar chest—maybe even from the civil war.

Finally, they made it all the way to the top of the house. Opened the windows in that tower—let the fall air flow in over them. And they could see _everything_ from up there. The trees of the forest stretching out below them. The winding, country roads. The stars, coming out overhead.

Merle was smoking. Leaned out one of those windows and stared off into the distance. And Daryl enjoyed the smell of the tobacco, as the smoke went wafting around. It was a smell he associated with his brother. It seemed like it was ingrained in Merle-like it was worked right into his skin.

And Merle—he'd carried Daryl up here on one shoulder. And close to him like that, Daryl could smell all those other Merle smells—leather, and whatever he'd been drinking. Sweat. Chewing tobacco. It all mixed together on his clothes. In that mop of curly hair he had.

Those scents lingered on the air, and on Daryl's shirt. He leaned out the window next to Merle. They looked at each other, out in the evening air, four stories above the ground.

Daryl pointed to one of the constellations. Merle looked up, and Daryl spoke to him.

"_Oh man_, there's Orion."

Merle shrugged.

"What, you don't like him?"

Daryl shook his head. No. Daryl didn't like him one bit.

"But all them _stories_, man—he's a damned _hunter_. Got to kill all _kinds_ of crazy monsters and shit. There's a fucking _giant-ass scorpion."_

"Don't matter. Orion's the worst."

Merle turned to him. Stamped out his cigarette on the window sill, and threw the stub down onto the slate roof below them.

"How so, kid?"

Daryl hesitated. Merle gestured to him.

"C'mon—tell me."

"Well… he only shows up when it's about to get cold. First sign summer's over."

Daryl struggled to find the right words.

"It's like… if he stays away, summer won't never end. Like… without him, it'd just keep goin' on forever."

He looked down again. Away from the star canopy over their heads, and into the dark corners of the gables below.

"And then… then we wouldn't have to see it go."

And Merle—Merle smiled, at that. Reached out, and ruffled his hair.

"Little brother," he said.

* * *

Daryl stepped into his bedroom. The room he slept in every night for his entire _life_—until the walkers came.

And he saw him. Merle. He was sprawled out on the bed, lying on one side. His face was turned towards the wall.

A cold wave washed over Daryl. It crept up from his stomach and started moving over his skin.

"Merle?"

Nothing.

"Merle?"

Daryl's hand went slack, and he dropped the borrowed handgun to the floor. It clattered there, breaking the silence. And Daryl forgot about it completely. Went to his brother. Dropped on his knees at the bedside.

He reached out to touch his brother's shoulder. It was cold. His hand darted back again, and he let out a strangled breath.

"_Merle."_

Daryl pulled at Merle again. Shook him.

"_Merle… Merle."_

But it was too late.

Daryl couldn't kill his brother, or save him, because Merle was already dead.

* * *

Daryl was twelve years old, and his daddy was so high he'd started breaking the furniture.

Daryl was hiding in his room—terrified his daddy would realize he was in the house, and turn that rage on him. He was throwing the kitchen chairs around. Hitting the walls with them. Seemed absolutely beside himself with an overwhelming, unfocused fury.

Finally, Daryl figured out a plan. Slipped through his bedroom window, and crept around the back of the house. Made his escape into the trees.

Daryl had lived here for twelve years, by now, and he knew better than to try to wait this out at home. He'd stay in the woods, if he had to—had done it before. There was a driving rain pouring down in sheets, that day—but sleeping out in that was preferable to facing the kind of storm waiting for him at home.

He wandered aimlessly for a few hours, soaked to the skin with the cold rain. Finally, Daryl came on the willow grove. The oxbow in the creek. The one he loved, and went to sometimes when he had nowhere else to go.

And no sooner did he reach the edge of the water, than he saw Merle on the other side. He had his boots off. Was sitting on a stone, soaking his feet in the current. Watching the rain make ripples in the smooth water.

Both of them must have run away when their daddy started raging. Somehow, they both came here.

And Merle—he was nineteen, now. Muscular, strong, fast, and tough. He'd knock your teeth in as soon as look at you. But right then, when he didn't know anyone was watching, he didn't seem _half_ that imposing.

Really, he seemed sad.

He looked up. Saw Daryl there, standing on the other side of the water. And Merle—he snarled at him. Looked at him with furious, flinty eyes.

"You _followin'_ me?"

Daryl stepped back. And Merle stood. Shouted at him.

"Get out!"

His voice echoed on the water. Mingled with the sound of the falling rain.

"Get the _fuck_ outta here. I'm gonna fucking_ kill you!"_

And Daryl knew he was in for it. If he couldn't get to him now, his brother would get him good, later. Beat the living shit out of him for whatever he thought he'd done.

When Merle thought you'd done him wrong, he didn't ever forget.

And he tried to throw a rock at Daryl—but the creek was too wide. It didn't reach. Then he actually waded into the water, like he was going to try to cross. He wanted to get to Daryl that badly. Seemed full to overbrimming with rage.

Merle tripped on something under the water—a tree root, or a stone. Fell into the current with an awkward splash.

And still he was shouting at him.

"_Get out!"_

Daryl paused a moment. Even after all that, a voice inside him said he should probably stay.

But he didn't. It was simply too much for him. So he just wandered out along the creek, off into the rain.

* * *

Daryl rolled his brother onto his back. His skin was grey and cold.

The scent of nicotine and leather and bourbon and the rest. It was all still there—pretty much the same as it was way back when Merle was a kid. And as Daryl clutched at his brother, he could smell it on his clothes, and in his hair.

He looked his brother over. And he knew how Merle did it before he looked. The needle. It was still in his arm.

And Daryl remembered what he said to the others, almost a year ago.

_Only thing that can kill Merle is Merle._

And then there was what Merle said, just a few hours before. Merle put a hand to his face, after they fought. Lingered there, touching him. Looked down at him sprawled out there on the pavement, and spoke.

_Goodbye, little brother._

Merle gave him the car keys, then. Told him where to go. Gave him just a shadow of a chance to rescue Rick and Carol. Didn't seem to care so much if his friends survived—but he _did_ seem to care about what Daryl had said to him. Merle listened as he railed at him from the asphalt. Spat his own blood in his face.

Merle chose to take a step back from that disorganized, angry mess of killing and rage and hatred he'd started. A small step, but a step nonetheless. Something about what Daryl said to him made him do that.

And something about what Daryl said made him do this, after.

Daryl knelt at the bedside. Looked at his brother. They could never have been together again, after what Merle did. It was over. Daryl knew that.

But to see Merle dead… to see it was over in such a real and uncompromising way. It didn't seem possible, to him.

He just kept looking at his brother. Wanted to remember his face.

And it was then he noticed something. There was something balled up on Merle's chest—mostly hidden under his left arm. Daryl moved his cold arm aside, and looked.

It was one of Daryl's own shirts—an old flannel. Merle must have pulled it out of one of his bedroom drawers.

He'd been clinging to it when he died.

"Merle…"

Daryl spoke softly, but the sound pierced the quiet around him. Seemed so loud he startled himself. And it brought him back, a bit, from his shock. He started to focus more clearly.

_He'll rise up any minute._

The thought stabbed straight through him, and Daryl stood up. Stepped swiftly away from the body.

He had to stop that from happening.

And so Daryl went looking for that Glock. At first he checked the holster—was confused when the gun wasn't there. Then he remembered.

He drew the gun when he came into the house—because was going to kill Merle. That's why he came here to begin with. Because he was going to kill Merle. Somehow, he'd forgotten.

He must have dropped it somewhere. Didn't _remember_ dropping it, but he had to have done it.

He turned. Saw it on his bedroom floor. Grabbed it.

And he stood there, staring at his brother. Held the gun. Heard his breath shaking in the close air pressing in all around him.

He couldn't do it.

Way back when, almost a year ago, when Amy was killed, he'd been overcome with rage when Andrea _left_ her there like that. It was reckless—that was the main thing. But it seemed cruel to him, and fucking selfish, too.

And yet she did it eventually—took her sweet fucking time about it, but she got it done. But now that _he_ was faced with it… he couldn't do even that much.

Daryl sighed. Looked down at the floorboards.

If things had been different—if Merle had been waiting for him, armed and ready to fight. If that had happened, he wasn't sure whether or not he'd have been able to kill his brother. But Daryl knew he couldn't shoot him now. When he was lying there, vulnerable and lost. Dead already.

And in the end, Daryl had to accept it. Realized he wasn't going to be able to do it. He just _couldn't_.

And the minutes went by, and he paced around his bedroom. Got more and more frantic. Merle could rise up any _second_, and he was just standing there waiting for it to happen.

And Daryl—he knew he couldn't bear to see something like that. Couldn't bear it if Merle tried to bite him. Went after him like one of those _things_.

So he needed to figure out what he was going to do.

* * *

Daryl sat out on the porch at his daddy's house. Had his boots propped up on the railing. It was his thirty-second birthday.

He was whittling on a piece of white cedar. The scent was worked deep into his fingers by now. It clouded the air around him. Covered his clothes, like the fine wood dust as he worked away at the details on the cedar.

It was a Cherokee rose, and one of the best carvings he ever made. He sanded it down smooth, and then started working in the veins of the petals. The texture of the leaves, and the patterned center.

He could hear the thrashers in the treeline, and the sun was going down.

And then there was a noise, and he saw Jenny Wilkins leaning in the doorway. Half her face was covered by the screen door. She propped it open with her shoulder while she lit up a cigarette. Then she stepped out on the porch. Offered him one. He just stared at her a moment, and looked down to his work again.

She shrugged. Nodded towards his hands.

"What's that?"

He didn't answer. He felt her staring. So finally, he spoke up.

"Block of wood," Daryl said. Didn't bother to look at her.

"C'mon. Tell me what you're makin'," she said, leaning on the porch railing—her dark hair spilling out all over her shoulders.

She smiled a little to her cigarette.

"I don't bite."

He was irritated. Didn't want to talk to her. He started to speak, and stopped himself. Heard footsteps from inside the house, followed by Merle's voice.

"That, Jenny, is a fucking Cherokee rose."

He leaned over Daryl. Looked at what he was making.

"There's some fuckall pablum story or other tied to them things."

Merle turned back to Jenny. Gave her a crooked smile.

"State flower, too."

"So… what sorta pablum?"

"Some native shit."

Merle gestured towards Daryl.

"This one—this one could tell you every damned thing about them red Indians."

Merle lowered his voice, like he was telling her a secret.

"He _reads."_

"And he just turned thirty-fucking-two years old, Jenny. My kid _brother_. And just how fucking old does that make me?"

"Don't worry, Merle" Jenny said, patting the side of Merle's arm.

She spoke over her shoulder as she drifted back into the house.

"You ain't gonna grow up any time soon."

The door closed behind her, and the two of them were alone.

Merle sat down next to Daryl, then. Watched him carve. Got quiet.

"It's strange, Daryl," Merle said, "You know, this is your first birthday since Daddy died.""

"You're startin' your first year of fucking life without that bastard breathing down your fucking neck," Merle said, "So tell me—how's it feel bein' free?"

Daryl put down the carving. Left it on the porch railing, with his carving knife and sandpaper at its side.

"You really wanna know?"

Merle shrugged, and after a moment, Daryl pressed on.

"Well… now that Daddy's dead. I dunno. It's like he's still here. Like he ain't never left."

He paused.

"It's like... like there's a ghost in the house."

Merle was chuckling. It swelled and grew and he laughed. Shook his head.

"Now _that_ is fucking stupid, if you ask me."

That quip didn't really have an unkind tone, but Daryl got annoyed at it, all the same. He'd gone out on a limb, saying that to Merle. So he glared at him.

"Yeah, well no one _asked_ you."

Merle just laughed louder, then. And Daryl felt his anger take over. Stood up, and his chair fell back. And he shoved his brother, then. And Merle was on him in an instant.

Daryl grabbed him by the shirt, and hissed at him.

"You're such a fucking _asshole_. _God_."

And Merle hit him. Sent him flying backwards. He balanced himself, and swung right on back. And before they knew it, they were rolling on the porch. trading punches like they did on a near weekly basis.

It was over as soon as it started. They were breathing hard, lying on those old, weathered boards. Merle rolled to his side, and caught Daryl's gaze.

And the tension broke. Merle's mouth started twitching up. Like he found the whole thing funny. And Daryl—despite everything—despite how angry he'd been—he couldn't help responding. It was infectious. And so they both laughed, then. Merle had a little blood running down his face from a split lip. Didn't seem to mind one bit.

And Merle stood up, then. Shook his head. Offered Daryl a hand, and pulled him upright. And he just let that low, deep chuckle of his keep rolling along under his breath.

"Thirty-fucking-two. Time fucking flies, baby brother."

He walked back into the doorway.

"Ok," Merle said, "Seein' it's your birthday, you win. Lemme get you a beer."

* * *

Daryl sat in his daddy's living room. On the floor. The floor where he rolled the trucks with his brother. The floor where Merle took that beating for him, way back when Daryl was eight years old, and their daddy tried to shoot him with his .38 special.

This floor. This room. This _house_. It was where Merle got high and fucked girls and beat Daryl senseless whenever he got angry.

Everything that had ever happened to them happened here. And it was like those memories were worked into the floorboards. Into the tired, plaster walls.

In the end, Daryl decided to seal off his bedroom with Merle in it. Pushed one of his bookshelves in front of his bedroom window. In front of all the wood carvings he'd left perched there. And then he closed the door, barricaded it, and sank down onto the floorboards. Rested his head against the wall.

And he sat. Waited. Waited for what seemed like forever.

He felt like he _had_ to wait for it to happen. Like some kind of vigil. He could give Merle that much, at least.

Merle. He was broken. This _place_—this place had broken him, like it broke their mama. Their daddy died here, too—and he barely ever left that upstairs room before he finally got around to doing it. _None_ of them survived this place. It devoured them whole.

Only Daryl made it out.

_Why?_

As he waited for his brother to turn, he thought about it. And a flood of images poured over him.

His mother's arms around him when she held him in his bed. His dogs. Their hot breath and warm fur. The few books he loved to read. The sculptures he loved to carve. The forest—wild and beautiful and open to explore. The freedom of climbing trees and tracking animals and moving where no one else would ever go.

And Merle.

Merle.

Daryl sighed. He couldn't put it into words, but somehow, he felt like he understood.

And then he heard it.

A noise at his back. It came from inside the bedroom. Another. Another.

They settled into a rhythm. Footsteps. He heard them move from one side of the room to the next. Over to the far wall, and back again. And Daryl couldn't breathe.

He blocked the window in there—so Merle was moving around in the dark.

He listened to the pacing footsteps, going nowhere. Over and over and over. Listened for a long time.

Daryl burrowed into his knees.

This place was full of ghosts. His parents. All four of his dogs. His brother.

Daryl wiped at his eyes. Exhaled hard. Stood up. Walked straight through the living room and out the front door.

He'd never come back here. This place was a tomb. Always had been. Always would be.

It was time to leave it behind.

So he stepped out of his daddy's house for the last time. Stopped there on the porch. And he thought of his bedroom at his back. Didn't turn to look, but he could see it in his mind all the same.

He'd been worried—worried that someone might come here, and open up that room. He couldn't be responsible if someone got attacked because he couldn't shoot his brother.

Merle was dead, and Daryl wanted to make sure he was done with hurting people, now.

So he remembered what Rick told him. They talked a lot, lately—and one night, while they were keeping watch, Rick told him about the day he first woke up in that hospital. The day he first saw the dead, and discovered what had happened while he was sleeping. Rick told him everything—what he saw, what he did. How frightened he'd been.

And Daryl, he remembered every word. So he knew what Rick saw in that hospital. And so, before Merle rose, Daryl got some paint out of the old drawer, and wrote out a warning on his bedroom door:

_Don't Open  
__Dead Inside_


	20. Carol

_Here it is: the end. I have a hard time believing it's really over. This story became a huge part of my life as I worked on it—a wonderful part of my life. I'll miss it._

_It's about 100,000 words long—if it were a trade paperback, that'd be around 400 pages. That's quite a journey, and thank you so much for taking it with me. I can't thank you enough, really—the pleasure of writing this can only be rivaled by the pleasure of sharing it._

_The title of this piece, "Down in the Willow Garden," is drawn from a 19th century Appalachian murder ballad. I think you might enjoy it—so look it up. The Kossoy sisters provide a beautifully pure, authentic version._

_And I suppose I must say goodbye. Take care everyone, and stay in touch. Finally, one more time: Thank you._

* * *

_Carol:_

In the early hours on the second morning, Carol found herself drifting out of a restless sleep.

Before she was aware of anything else, she was aware of the cold. Her fingers were a little numb from it, and the room had an uncomfortable draft. She didn't seem to have any blankets, so she tried to burrow into the mattress to shelter herself. The movement shook the sleep from her mind, and it struck her.

She was _cold_.

She realized what that meant, and opened her eyes.

Her head wasn't aching anymore. The sweat was dry on her skin.

The fever had broken in the night.

She let out a long, trembling breath. Relished the chill from the drafty windows as it flowed over her face.

There were tears in stinging her eyes. She hadn't realized how much—how _desperately_ she'd wanted to live until that moment. But she wanted to live.

She wanted to live.

The sweaty bedsheets were tangled down around her waist. Carol had a dim memory of pulling them off some time before, when she couldn't bear the press of them on her skin any longer. There were voices in the room, when she did it. People trying to speak to her. She couldn't remember who they were, or what they said.

A sound broke through the morning quiet—broke Carol's concentration. A baby crying. Lori's baby. The sound echoed on the walls—muted and distant and far away. And it sounded wonderful to Carol. She wanted nothing more than to hear those cries. To smell the crispness in the air. To breathe.

Carol listened to the baby, and watched the faint, blue dawn creeping over the wall in front of her. Dim and strange—filtered through the only window that went unbroken when the walkers came. The rest were boarded up, now, to keep out the cold.

There were patterns of light on that wall—and she couldn't stop _staring_ at them. The silhouettes of the tree branches, outlined in soft grey against the plaster. Those branches nodded with the wind outside, and the patterns swayed and danced on the wall, in turn.

Somewhere out on the porch, the windchimes were ringing.

Carol pushed herself up in the bed. Breathed in the cool air. Pulled on her bedsheets, and they didn't give. Something was holding them down.

Daryl. He was there beside her. Asleep in a chair, slouched over with his head pressed against the mattress. His left arm was sprawled out on the coverlet. And the light from outside moved over him. Made patterns on his sleeping face. On his hands—calloused, with dirt worked deep under the fingernails.

Carol watched him, and remembered. He'd been with her the last time she woke—her eyes fluttered open, and she saw him sitting there in that chair—watching her, silently. And he was still there, now. She had no idea how many hours passed by as she wandered through that feverish haze.

But that was over, now.

So she reached out for him. Touched his hair. Tried to wake him. And he shifted. Murmured something in his sleep, softly.

He was dreaming, again.

"Daryl," she whispered.

He didn't stir. So she reached over, and pulled on his hand.

"_Daryl…"_

He opened his eyes. Blearily raised his head at the sound of her voice.

She looked to him, and smiled.

* * *

Later that morning, Lori brought little baby Judy in to meet Carol.

There was an energy in the air. Everyone was feeling it. The whole house was alive with people talking and moving around.

They were excited about the baby. Excited about Carol. So when Lori carried her daughter into the room, everyone in the whole house followed after her.

When they came in, Daryl drifted away from Carol's bedside. Hung back a bit, in the doorway. Stood a ways behind all the others, watching Carol smile and coo at the bundle resting in her arm.

And the others all crowded around close. Glenn and Maggie, by the window. T-Dog and Hershel talking about something by the corner of the bed. Carl was right next to his mother, leaning on the mattress, chatting a mile a minute with Carol—telling her everything he'd noticed about his sister so far.

And Beth—Beth climbed right into bed with Carol. Was leaning over her good shoulder, with a hand on Carol's arm.

Only Rick held back. Stood at Daryl's side, by the doorway. They watched the rest, together.

Daryl couldn't stop looking at her bandages—the missing arm.

She seemed so _delicate_ to him, lying there in that bed—slight and fragile, like a sparrow.

"Oh, just _look_ at you," Carol said, smiling down at the baby.

"Those little _feet_."

Lori said something to Carol, then, and she laughed. She was smiling so brightly, cradling that little baby in her one arm. The sunlight streamed brilliantly through the window and spilled over her. In his mind, it glowed on her skin.

Even so, it hurt him to look at her. Left an unsettled, sick feeling twisting deep in his chest.

She'd done it for him. It was all to save him.

And she had a bad bruise on her forehead, and a long, angry gash at the side of her face. She told them that Merle did that. Hit her head against his steering wheel.

Hershel stitched it up as well as he could, but it was bound to leave a scar.

_What fucking doesn't._

Merle said that. He'd said it when Daryl stitched up his leg in the kitchen—only a few days ago. But he'd been wrong. That wound never had time to leave a scar.

It would never heal.

Daryl pushed the thoughts of his brother down deep into his gut, then. Tried to ignore them. Tried to leave them behind—like he'd left his daddy's house. Like he left his bedroom—barricaded and dark and shut away.

Judy started to cry, then, so Carol passed her back to her mama. And Daryl turned, and slipped out of the room—off into the hallway.

* * *

From that day forward, Merle haunted Daryl's dreams.

In those dreams, Daryl would move through the dark woods—through the deep shadows of the densest thickets. And Merle would be there. Sometimes Daryl couldn't see him, but he knew.

Sometimes he'd be watching from the bushes. Somewhere under the sheltering canopy of the close, draping pines.

Sometimes he followed Daryl, in those dreams. Spoke to him, as he looked for a way out of the woods. And if Daryl made it out of the forest and onto the open hills, Merle would try to call him back—back into the trees.

And sometimes, in those dreams, they'd be sitting on a footbridge, side by side, watching the creek flow along beneath them.

When he woke, Daryl tried to forget. Tried to hide his brother away. But Merle couldn't be contained. Death was nothing in the face of Merle's tenacious _will_. In all the ways that mattered, he was still there.

Sometimes Daryl thought of going back there—back to his daddy's house. Thought he might open up that bedroom door and do what he hadn't done before.

Because it wasn't right—leaving him there. Merle didn't belong in a cage.

But he never did it. Months passed, and he still couldn't face it—and with every passing day, the idea grew more and more awful in his mind. What Merle would be like, behind that door... he couldn't contemplate it.

And Daryl adamantly refused to send anyone _else_ to do what he couldn't. Really, he didn't want anyone to _know_. He hid his cowardice, like all the other vulnerable parts inside him.

So Daryl left that task unfinished.

And for the rest of Daryl's life, he carried Merle with him. Heard his voice. Felt his presence. Met him in his dreams.

He transformed himself into a cage for his brother. Enfolded him within, and held him there, forever.

* * *

After three weeks passed by, Hershel took the final dressings from Carol's wound. Declared her healed. And with the bandages gone, she felt like she couldn't really hide from what happened, anymore. When Hershel threw that last set of wrappings away, Carol started the business of getting used to what was hidden underneath them.

She tried to keep up with all her old work, that day—didn't want to let anyone help her. Tried to wash dishes with an agonizing, awkward slowness. Eventually she just dropped a plate into the water and walked away. Headed for the stairs.

Carol retreated to her room. Stripped her clothes away, and stood naked in front of her bedroom mirror. Stared hard at the missing arm—the scars along the side of her shoulder.

That wasn't going to change. This was the way things were going to be for the rest of her life.

She sighed. Looked at herself a moment longer, and turned away.

And Carol took her robe from where it hung on her bedpost. Slipped into it as well as she could manage. Tried to tie the sash. Couldn't. So she wrapped the thing around herself, and went out the door. Headed straight to Daryl's room.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed. Didn't seem to be doing anything in particular—just thinking. He stood when she came in.

And she walked up to him. Pulled her robe aside, and showed him what had happened to her.

And Daryl—he pressed in close. Looked down at her missing arm. Reached for it.

He ran his fingers along the scars—the suture marks where Hershel folded the skin in on itself. Stared at them intently.

And the _look_ on his face, as he saw those scars for the first time. She knew he'd never be able to forgive himself for this.

But really—she would never have done it differently, if she'd been given another chance. They were both alive. That's what mattered to her.

She looked to him, firmly. Spoke to him. Tried to make him understand.

"Daryl—I _saved_ you."

He nodded. Looked down at the floor.

She reached out for him. Lifted his face to meet her eyes. Leaned in close.

"And _you_ saved _me_."

He placed a hand just above her bare breast, then, and Carol realized he was trying to feel her heartbeat. His palm was warm against her skin. They were standing very close together, and she could feel his breath in the air—it moved on her face. She felt the warmth from his body, inches away.

And he leaned down, then, and kissed her collar bone. And then her neck. Very, very softly—a whisper against her skin.

She touched his cheek with her one hand, and spoke to him. Still felt she needed to explain.

"It's you and—"

He caught her lips, and she never finished saying it. He pressed a kiss onto her, firm and warm. Took her gently into his arms, and laid her down on his bed.

* * *

After that, four months went by like a dream.

For Daryl, the time passed strangely—it all seemed very slow and dizzyingly fast at the same time. The winter faded away, as it always did. Spring came. And somehow, Daryl found himself at the beginning of a new summer.

He'd never imagined they'd stay here in this place. But it looked like that was the plan. They were settling in for the long haul. The group had been discussing trying to figure out how to use some earth moving equipment. How to set up and maintain generators—how to test for water quality and what they could do about growing food.

They could fortify the place. Improve it. Get the electricity running. Make it a home. Build a life for each other, like Rick said all those ages and ages ago.

So Daryl realized he'd be in this town for a while. He'd fled, and fought, and struggled, and discovered countless new things… and still he ended up back here. His hometown. It seemed impossible—but there it was.

He wasn't sure how long they'd stay here—nothing was certain in this world. But for now, things seemed alright.

So Daryl kept himself busy. Spent much of his time hunting—getting used to the new crossbow he'd found for himself. It was a better model than his old one, really—much more expensive than anything he could have scrounged up for himself in his old life. But if he was honest, he didn't like it nearly as much as the one he'd lost.

And he spent days on end training Carl—who just kept on getting taller. Often, he took the kid out when he hunted. And it wasn't long before Carl joined the regular rotation for the supply runs.

And Daryl kept late-night watches with Rick, and went on those runs with Glenn and T-Dog and the others. He found himself enjoying their company more and more. And while he had trouble accepting it, at first—even _realizing_ it—everyone else seemed to be enjoying the time they spent with him, too.

Back at the house, he looked after Carol as much as she would let him. Watched over her carefully as she learned to live with her injury. She never complained—not even once—but it slowed down every little thing she did. Made some things completely impossible. Basic things. Things she _needed_ to do. He couldn't understand the methodical patience she seemed to have with it all. How she didn't lose it completely from sheer and utter frustration.

And he could tell how much the wound hurt her. She had phantom pains—like Merle said _he_ had.

And so it hurt Daryl, too. He couldn't look at it, sometimes—her wound. The missing arm.

It was simply too painful.

And so while Daryl had many, many things that demanded his time, there were many more that weighed down on his spirit.

But even so—sometimes, when everything else was done—when he had time to be by himself, Daryl just walked around in the forest. The forest of his childhood. The one he'd shared with Merle—where he'd spent all those long days as a child. Where he found a peaceful shelter from their daddy's house.

Daryl would wander there, out underneath the fresh, green leaves, and open that shut door he'd hidden away inside—down deep in the back of his mind.

He'd walk through the trees, and think about his brother.

* * *

In the midst of Daryl's settled routine, Carol told him she was pregnant.

The pregnancy was a complete surprise to her—to _both_ of them. And it was over just as suddenly as it came. After only a few short weeks, she miscarried. Spring had just started blooming on the trees when it happened.

It was her sixth lost baby, she said.

In the short time they knew about the pregnancy, he'd looked at her—at her body—with a sort of hushed awe. A sort of quiet wonder that he could be a _part_ of something like that.

It seemed like magic.

But that wonder—that magic—they were tinged full through with a dizzying, giddy fear. Like when he was a kid, and he found himself too far up in the tree branches and had no idea how he'd managed to climb so high. He'd feel like he could fall any moment—though the air up in the treetops was fresh, and the view of the forest was beautiful.

And Carol had just turned forty-five, and so while neither of them said anything about it, they both knew it had probably been the last chance.

After she lost the baby, he listened to her cry most every night. She'd weep into his shoulder, and he'd hold her in their bed. And he wanted to say something that would help her feel better—but he didn't have any words.

Over time, he came to feel like her tears weren't just about the miscarriage—they were about _everything_. All of the many things she'd lost.

So a hollow sort of sadness filled the air between them. He spent night after night listening to her cry, and day after day thinking about all the things that might have been.

And then, one night, Carol's tears just faded away on their own. She slept beside him silently the whole night through.

And he saw her starting to change, after that. She started getting quiet.

She was thinking—hard. He could see it. It went on for days, and weeks. He'd catch her watching the budding leaves through the windows—staring out into the trees when she thought no one was looking.

And her face. Her expression—it began to look different to him. Harder. Colder. More resolute. Even the way she carried her body was different. Her back was straighter. People started taking notice when she came in and out of a room.

It suited her, somehow. On her face, that new severity was almost painfully beautiful. She looked like a saint in a painting to him. Regal and calm.

He was reminded of that night in the basement. Of how she looked, standing there, covered in her own blood—standing above the walkers she'd beaten to death with her bare hands. He remembered her fierce eyes, reflecting the moonlight cast through the narrow windows.

Her face had much the same look, then. The same fire. The same strength.

Carol. She was full of hidden depths he'd only begun to understand. And he loved her for it.

He loved her.

* * *

One morning that May, Carol found herself standing in the door to her old bedroom.

She'd long since moved into one of the larger rooms with Daryl. In the painted lady, there were so many empty spaces they'd essentially had their pick.

Thinking of all those empty rooms, Carol decided to give the house a good airing, that morning. Unused spaces got stale and musty, and she didn't like the idea of that. A place people lived shouldn't be that way. A home should be clean.

So she woke very early, and had been moving all around the house, opening doors and windows and letting the sun and wind stream in.

And when she reached her old bedroom, she just stood there. Looked around. She hadn't been here for months—so it felt strange to see it. Like moving back in time.

All her notes were still on the vanity table. Rosalie's journals were there, too. She hadn't thought much about those books in a good, long while. If she was honest, she hadn't thought of Rosalie much, either.

So she gathered everything up. Put the journals away in a drawer. One by one—because she only had one hand, and couldn't do it any other way.

And her hand brushed something as she tucked that final journal away. There was something in the drawer—way back in the corner. And then she remembered.

It was the holster Daryl gave her that past December. And the .38 special was there right behind it, with the ammunition.

She reached out and touched the buckle of that holster. The leather belt. The hand-punched holes Daryl put there for her, all those months ago.

Carol looked at them and thought, as the summer air poured over her from the open window.

* * *

Hours later, Daryl woke to find that Carol wasn't in their bed. He could tell from the light that he'd slept later than usual. He looked over, and saw that her boots were gone from their place by the door. She was already up—had left the room so quietly she managed not to wake him.

He went downstairs to look for her, and immediately saw her standing in the front parlor. He paused at the end of the staircase—by those strange, newel post carvings.

Two women. One face intact. The other, shot away. Obliterated. And he stood between them, there, a moment—between the one that was destroyed, and the one that remained.

He walked into the front parlor, and went to Carol, standing there. She was at the piano. The lid was still up from the time she'd last played it— months ago, before she lost her arm. The keys were coated with dust.

She leaned in, over the bench. Reached out with her one hand. Hit middle C, and listened to the tone ring out in the morning quiet.

Then she closed the lid for the last time.

He came to her. She looked up. Smiled one of her small, close-lipped smiles. And her _face_. It was so firm. She met his gaze—steady and cool.

And he found himself missing the old softness, a little. Mourned it, like he mourned his brother.

And yet he was struck by it all over again. She was even more beautiful than she'd been before.

It was in her eyes.

She shifted. Stepped towards him. And he noticed it—she was wearing the .38 special. His daddy's revolver. The one Daddy pointed at him when he was just eight years old. Merle fought Daddy off, then—took that savage beating to save Daryl's life. Their daddy could easily have killed Merle, hitting him over the head with the side of the handgun like he did.

They'd both been lucky that day.

What Merle did that time, when Daryl was a kid… it was a lot like what Carol did for him all those years later.

Daryl looked Carol over. She had a hunting knife hanging from her belt. He didn't know where she'd gotten it from, or how long she'd had it.

But he could see exactly what she had in mind. What she wanted him to do.

Carol nodded down to the holster on her hip. And when she spoke, it was with direct, terse kind of forcefulness.

"Teach me," she said.

And before he knew what he was doing, he pulled her in with both hands, and kissed her—hard and deep.

And when he drew away, he saw it. Saw it in her face. She was going to be alright.

She was going to be just fine.

* * *

While Carol stood with Daryl beside that piano, she felt the future was uncertain.

He'd teach her to use that weapon. They'd fight the danger that surrounded them on all sides. They'd live, and try, and do their best.

And as they stood there, she noticed that something seemed to catch Daryl's eye. One of the paintings on the wall, behind the piano.

An ocean landscape. The sand beach, and the rocks, and the water in waves that filtered the sunrise with greens and pure, clean blues. He stared into that perfect world, surrounded by its golden frame.

And Carol looked to him, questioningly.

And he smiled a little—one of his awkward, crooked smiles. And he told her all about what he was thinking.

"I ain't never been nowhere. Ain't never seen nothing—but I always wanted to see the ocean. Ever since I was a little kid, really… but every damned time I try and _do_ it, somethin' seems to get in the way..."

A heavy breeze picked up outside, and the summer air flowed through the house. All the way from the back porch, rushing through the open windows and around the wood paneling and over Daryl and Carol where they stood. And the sound of the wind in the forest leaves was like waves. Ocean waves.

"So maybe we'll go there," she said, laying her hand on his arm. Looked to him.

"Maybe we'll see it, someday."


End file.
